


Scion of Stars

by Aerlalaith



Series: Scion of Stars [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels are Dicks, Angst, BAMF Castiel, Castiel in the Bunker, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Fatherhood, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Nephilim, Overprotective Castiel, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Rescue, Slow Burn, Uncle Sam, mention of Castiel/Daphne Allen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One minute Dean's cleaning shifter guts out of his hair, the next, Castiel's telling him that he somehow has a kid. Not only that, but Crowley got there first and is holding him ransom. Now Dean has to stage a rescue mission (or make a deal), all the while trying to keep Castiel from freaking out about his sudden fatherhood, and Heaven from learning that their least favorite type of abomination is alive, kicking, and about to lose its baby teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The call came at around ten pm. Dean, still covered in shifter blood and other, more terrible things, peered at the lit-up screen with a grimace. When he saw who was calling, his lips thinned even further.  
   
“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, cradling the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “Long time no talk.”  
   
“Dean. I need your help.”  
   
“Whoa,” said Dean. “Just hold the phone there.”  
   
“…I am holding the phone.”  
   
“It means hold on, smartass.” He spied Sam across the room distastefully cleaning guts off an angel blade, and tried to signal to him for the rag. After one more swipe, Sam tossed it to him. Dean caught it with his empty hand. “Why don’t we just start with a _where have you been_ first, okay?”  
   
“Dean, we don’t have time for this.” Castiel’s voice sounded more urgent now. “Crowley—”  
   
“I’m really not going to like this, am I?” said Dean, as he wiped down his hands.  
   
On the other end of the line, Castiel made a noise of terse agreement.  
   
Dean dropped the rag on the floor and switched to holding the phone with his right hand. With the other, he scrubbed at his face. “Okay,” he said, resigned. “Shoot.”  
   
“Crowley has found—something.”  
   
“Cas, that’s really not helpful. Something bad? Something good? Another tablet? Excalibur?”  
   
“Dean…” Castiel trailed off. There was a pause and then Dean heard him muttering, probably covering the receiver. “This is difficult to explain.”  
   
“Jesus Christ, Cas, it’s not going to get easier with you stalling,” Dean said. “Do you want our help or not?” He turned to Sam who, finished with cleanup, had wandered over and was giving him a curious look. “It’s Cas,” he said, voice clipped.  
   
Both of Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Cas? Did he say where the hell he’s been?”  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”  
   
“He’s been gone for three months!”  
   
“Dean,” Cas said on the line. “Are you still there?”  
   
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean sighed. “Still here.”  
   
“Dean I—I believe this will be less difficult in person. Where are you?”  
   
Dean snorted. “Warehouse.”  
   
“ _Dean_.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said. “Whatever it is, can it at least wait until I’ve had a shower? I’m literally covered in shifter guts here, man.”  
   
A moment of silence and then, “Yes. Fine.”  
   
“That’s very generous of you,” Dean told him.  
   
Castiel ignored him. “Where are you staying?”  
   
With an exhale, Dean rattled off the address and room number. “Wait at least an hour,” he instructed, as he and Sam headed for the car. “Swear to God, if I don’t get my shower, you will get no help.”  
   
“Yes, I understand,” Castiel said. “I will see you in an hour.” He hung up while Dean, poised to say more, opened his mouth. When the dial tone came however, he slowly dropped his hand and stared at the phone.  
   
“That son of a bitch,” he said. Sam nodded in agreement. Dean jammed the key into the ignition. “Asshole says he’ll be gone three days max, and it’s three months? I’m going to punch him when I see him.”  
   
“That’s probably going to hurt.”  
   
“I don’t care,” Dean seethed, as he stepped on the gas. “He’s asking for it.”  
   
“Maybe he had a good reason.”  
   
“Shut up, Sam. He could’ve called.”  
   
“So could you,” Sam pointed out. Predictably, Dean scowled.  
   
“Whatever,” he said. “Asshole can’t bother to pick up a phone, I’m not leaving a bunch of whiny-ass messages for him.”  
   
“Dean—”  
   
Dean turned the radio up. “Enough, Sam,” he said. “Cas said he’ll meet us in an hour.”  
   
“Did he say why?”  
   
“Didn’t want to talk over the phone. Just said Crowley found something.”  
   
“What, like a weapon?”  
   
“Didn’t say.”  
   
Sam frowned. “Well, that’s not very helpful.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. He eased onto the highway. “No kidding.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
The drive from the warehouse where they had found the shifter to the Motel 6 on the outskirts of Ogden, was long enough that by the time Dean had scrubbed himself down and slipped on a fresh t-shirt and jeans, Castiel was already waiting by the window.  
   
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. He turned, hands linked behind his back.  
   
“Uh,” said Dean, sharing a glance with Sam, who shrugged. “Hey, Cas.”  
   
“I brought food.”  
   
Dean scrubbed his hair with a towel, eyeing the three paper bags of fast food sitting on the table. “I see that.”  
   
“I insisted we wait for you.” Behind Castiel, Dean could see Sam shaking his head again.  
   
“Okay…”  
   
“It’s burgers.”  
   
“Cas.” Dean tossed the towel over the back of the chair. He ran his fingers through his hair, straightening it, before wiping his hands across the towel and crossing his arms.  “Thanks for bringing the food and all, but do you want to tell us what the hell is going on?”  
   
Sam nodded, although he had glided closer to the table and already had one hand stuck into the fries. “Where’ve you been, Cas? We’ve been worried.”  
   
“I—” Castiel ducked his head, looking uncharacteristically subdued. “It’s difficult to explain.”  
   
Dean shot him a look.  
   
Castiel’s mouth twisted. He began to pace, eyes cast down to the floor. “When I left you, it was because I felt a peculiar tug on my grace. I assumed that when it had been returned, some was—missed. I thought to search for it. I didn’t think it would take so long.”  
   
“Okay.” Still watching him closely, Dean sat down at the table. “And you couldn’t have told us that why, exactly?”  
   
Castiel muttered something.  
   
“Speak up, mumbles,” Dean said. He took one of the burgers out of the bag and began to unwrap it.  
   
Castiel’s jaw worked. He turned to stare out the window. “It seemed unusual that I had not detected the absence before.” He spun back around, shoulders dropping into an irate shrug. “And that it was taking such a long time to locate.”  
   
“Cas,” Sam said slowly, mouth half-full of fries, “are you telling us that you didn’t call because you were _embarrassed_ about it?”  
   
Castiel glared. “No.”  
   
“Dude,” said Sam.  
   
Dean rubbed at his forehead, conjuring up the facsimile of a grin. “Cas,” he said, “you know, no matter how embarrassing your body is, you can always talk to mommy and daddy about it.”  
   
The glare intensified. “That’s not funny, Dean.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said, his good humor vanishing. He put down his uneaten burger. “Neither is not calling. Pick up the goddamned phone next time. We’ve been through this.”  
   
Castiel looked down at the floor again.  
   
Sam cocked his head. “So I’m guessing you didn’t find it? Your grace?”  
   
“Not precisely,” Castiel said delicately. He had stopped pacing at this point, but still seemed to be having a difficult time keeping still, if the constant twitching of his hands was any sort of indication.  
   
Dean blew air out of the corner of his mouth. Elbow on the table, he rested his chin in his hands. “Let me guess, is that what Crowley found?”  
   
Mute, Castiel shook his head. Sam and Dean exchanged puzzled looks.  
   
“Uh, want to clue us in here, Cas? Can’t help if we don’t know what’s going on.”  
   
After a moment, Castiel raised his head. He opened his mouth, paused, then closed it. Dean began to feel pinpricks of unease down the back of his neck. The feeling only intensified as Castiel actually shut his eyes. He watched warily as Castiel took a deep breath and said,  
   
“Crowley has found my son.”  
   
The resulting silence was deafening. Dean’s elbow slipped off the table. Sam’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.  
   
“I beg your pardon?” Dean finally managed, voice probably a little louder than strictly necessary. “Crowley found your _what_?”  
   
“You have a what?” Sam added, dazed, while Castiel winced.  
   
“My son.”  
   
“Your what.”  
   
“My _son_ , Dean. I don’t understand why you’re making me repeat myself.”  
   
“How is that even possible?” Sam interrupted.  
   
“Screw that, how come you never told us you had a freaking _kid_ before?” Dean’s shock was rapidly devolving into fury. Castiel held up his hands, placating.  
   
“Dean, I didn’t know.”  
   
Dean turned to Sam, grimace in place. “Oh, he didn’t know.” He swung back to Castiel, snapping, “You didn’t _know_?”  
   
“No, I—”  
   
But Dean wasn’t done yet. “Aren’t you a goddamn angel? Didn’t they teach you where babies come from? Jesus.” He spread his hands. “I thought we talked about the whole—” Dean struggled, his face turning a peculiar shade of red, “—cloud seeding thing!”  
   
Castiel gave an uncomfortable little shrug of the shoulders.  
   
Dean made an inarticulate sound of frustration. “I can’t believe you.”  
   
“I’m not lying, Dean. I—”  
   
“That’s not what I meant, you dick.”  
   
“Cas,” Sam said, “I thought that wasn’t allowed.”  
   
“What?” Dean whirled on him. “What’s not allowed?”  
   
“Angels having kids.” Sam was watching Castiel closely. “Cas?”  
   
Castiel swallowed. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat. “You’re correct. It is forbidden”  
   
Sam frowned. “Then, how could you let this happen?”  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “Obviously someone didn’t use protection.” He exhaled, hand covering his eyes. “Damn it, Cas.”  
   
“No,” Sam insisted, standing now, “an angel could control whether they conceive or not.” His gaze didn’t waver from Castiel’s form. Dean narrowed his eyes as well, his lips pursed.  
   
“Cas. Is that true?”  
   
Unable to avoid their stares, Castiel sat down heavily in the remaining chair. He covered his face with his hands. “Yes, it’s true.”  
   
There was another long moment of silence, this one somehow worse than the last. Finally Dean said, voice flat, “You meant to have a kid.”  
   
Castiel shook his head again. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to.”  
   
“What do you mean you didn’t know? You just _said_ —”  
   
“I had amnesia!” Cas snapped suddenly. “I didn’t know that I was an angel at the time, Dean! I didn’t know that I had grace, I didn’t _know_ , do you understand?”  
   
“Oh my god,” said Sam, realizing.  
   
“I was married, Dean,” Castiel said to his hands. “Daphne had pulled me from the river and she—we—”  
   
“Oh,” Dean said, eyes widening. “Oh, shit.”  
   
“And then I left and she never contacted me—so I swear to you, Dean,” Castiel reached up to grip Dean’s shoulder, face feverish, “I _didn’t know_.”  
   
Dean shut his eyes. “Cas…”  
   
“And now Crowley has the boy.” Castiel dropped his hand back into his own lap but his focus only intensified. “I need your help, Dean.”  
   
Dean’s throat worked. “Fuck,” he said. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, letting out a long exhale. “Fuck.”  
   
“I’m sorry.” Castiel set his jaw. “You know I would not ask this of you if there were any other option.”  
   
At that, Dean glared at him. “Fuck’s sake, Cas. Don’t be a martyr about it. Of course I’ll help you. I’m not going to leave a freaking kid with Crowley. Especially not—” he met Castiel’s gaze. “Especially not _your_ kid. Jesus.”  
   
Their eyes still locked together, Castiel slowly nodded. “Thank you, Dean.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said tiredly. “Doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you.” He slumped down into his chair, still looking less than pleased. Next to him, Sam was shaking his head.  
   
“Dude.”  
   
Dean scowled. “Now what?”  
   
Sam nodded towards Castiel, expression apologetic. “Claire is _not_ going to like this.”  
   
Castiel blanched. Dean snorted, then reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Good luck explaining that one, Cas.”  
   
“I think we have a bullet proof vest you can borrow,” Sam added. He grinned at Castiel’s frown.  
   
“If we could get back to the immediate issue at hand,” he said, voice a little crisper. “I’ll worry about explaining the existence of my—my son, to my—to Claire, afterwards.”  
   
Dean cast his eyes heavenwards. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s going to go real well.”  
   
Shooting Dean a quelling look, Sam sat down again. He leaned forward across the table, towards Castiel. “Okay, so—you uh, found out you have a kid. How exactly did Crowley get to him?”  
   
At that, Castiel sat up straighter. “What I had assumed was my grace but was actually the—the child—”  
   
“Cas, does the kid have a name?” Dean interrupted.  
   
Castiel tilted his head. “I assume so.”  
   
“You don’t know his name?” Dean rubbed at his temples. “Seriously?”  
   
“As I was explaining,” Castiel said tersely, “by the time I became aware of him, he was already in Crowley’s possession.”  
   
“So Crowley kidnapped him,” Dean surmised.  
   
“Likely.”  
   
“And has he asked for anything?” Sam crumpled up a wrapper and threw it into the paper burger bag. “Like, a ransom or something?”  
   
“No.” Castiel looked disgruntled. “He sent me a video.”  
   
Dean raised his eyebrows. “He sent you a what?”  
   
In response, Castiel held up his phone. “After three months of chasing around a, a maddening sputter of grace,” he grit his teeth, “I received a message from Crowley. Here.” He handed the phone over to Dean, who took it and scrolled to Castiel’s text messages. His eyes flickered towards Castiel.  
   
“This one?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Dean pressed play. Sam leaned sideways to watch as Crowley’s face appeared on the screen.  
   
_“Hello, Castiel,”_ Crowley said, smiling a little, _“I’ve found something rather interesting that I think belongs to you.”_ The video left Crowley, panning over to what looked like a small boy sitting on the floor in a corner. He was dressed in overall shorts and had his hands clasped around his knees, face buried. The three hunters had a few moments to take in the sight, before Crowley’s face filled the screen again. _“Believe me, I was very surprised to find it—breaking the rules left and right again I see. Castiel, you dog. Anyway.”_ Crowley lifted an eyebrow. _“If you want it returned to you unharmed, I suggest we meet.”_ He smiled _,_ adding _, “Maybe even discuss a deal.”_ He wiggled his fingers, and blew a kiss at the screen. “ _Call me when you can. Ciao, darling!”_  
   
The screen went blank.  
   
Dean sucked in a breath. “That him?” Castiel nodded. “You sure? Crowley never actually said he was your kid.”  
   
“Positive,” Castiel said. “Now that I know what to look for, I can sense him. He bears my grace. He is mine.” His tone brooked no arguments.  
   
“Have you spoken to Crowley?” Sam asked.  
   
“As soon as I received the video.” Castiel looked down at the phone again. “He was very jovial.”  
   
“Of course he was,” Dean said sourly. He drummed his fingers on the table. “You try summoning him?”  
   
“Of course.” Castiel grimaced. “He did not bring the child.”  
   
“Well, screw that.” Dean stood abruptly, pushing his chair back. “Let’s summon the dick right now.”  
   
“Dean—”  
   
“No, Cas. Crowley has a kid. _Your_ kid.” Dean began to pace. “We can’t just leave him there.”  
   
“Yes, I understand that, Dean.” Castiel got to his feet as well. “We have already agreed to meet.”  
   
“When, next frickin’ week? _Cas_ —” Dean stilled as Castiel placed a hand on his wrist.  
   
“Tomorrow,” Castiel said.  
   
Dean looked down at Castiel’s hand, then back up at his face. “Where?”  
   
“Grand Junction. Colorado.”  
   
Sam bit his lip. “Cas,” he said tentatively, “what about the kid’s mom?”  
   
Castiel stilled. He drew his hand away from Dean’s wrist. “I went to her home, but she appears to have sold it in the past—since I lived there. I could sense her nowhere. Either…” he hesitated. “Either Crowley has her as well, or she has passed on.”  
   
“Well, fuck.” Dean flung himself back into the chair. He hunched over, squeezing his head between his hands. “This just keeps getting better and better.”  
   
“Looks like Grand Junction’s about a five hour drive from here.” Sam tapped his phone. “What time are you meeting Crowley?”  
   
“Did he say what he _wants_?” Dean put in, looking up again.  
   
“Evening,” Castiel said, lip curling slightly. “Eight o’clock. And no, he did not.”  
   
Sam frowned. “He has to want something,” he said. “He’s Crowley.”  
   
“Undoubtedly.”  
   
“We can’t go into this blind,” Dean said.  
   
“We will not.” Castiel’s voice was forceful. Sam peered down at his phone again.  
   
“We should have enough time to drive there tomorrow.” He slid his phone into the pocket of his jeans and pushed back from the table. Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, he shrugged into it.  
   
“What are you doing?”  
   
Sam didn’t pause. “Going to go check in with the precinct. If we’re leaving tomorrow, better do it now. Hopefully it was just the one shifter, but you never know.”  
   
“In jeans?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “I’m off duty,” he said. He fished for his fake badge in his other pants.  
   
Dean scoffed, chin nestled in the palm of his hand. “Why don’t you just call?”  
   
“More professional to appear in person.” He held his hand out. “Keys.”  
   
With a suspicious look, Dean handed them over.  
   
“See you later,” Sam said, as he made his way out the door. It slammed behind him, rattling the cheap painting on the wall. As soon as he was gone, Castiel turned to Dean, who sighed.  
   
“I’ll bet he thought he was being subtle, too.”  
   
“Dean,” said Castiel, still standing rather stiffly next to the table.  
   
“Oh, just sit the fuck down, Cas.” Dean patted the chair next to him.  
   
Castiel sat, folding his hands in his lap.  
   
 “So,” Dean began, after the silence became pressing. “A dad, huh?”  
   
“So it would seem.”  
   
Dean stole a glance at Castiel’s face out of the corner of his eye. His expression was calm, but his hair was wilder than usual, as if hands had run through it several times. His fingers were still twitching, and he seemed unable to stop jiggling his right leg.  
   
Yep. He was totally freaked.  
   
“So, uh. How did it—uh. Shit.” Dean cursed. “You know.”  
   
“We had sex.” Castiel’s voice was shockingly bland. “She must have conceived.”  
   
Dean winced. “And she never contacted you?”  
   
“I.” Castiel stared down at his hands. “I disappeared, Dean.” He shifted in the chair, rearranging his coat, straightening his shirt. “I have no way of knowing if she intended to, or even attempted to contact me.” He exhaled. “Most likely she thought I was dead.”  
   
“Well, if we’re gonna be technical about it,” Dean tried to joke. He faltered at the look on Castiel’s face. “Too soon?”  
   
“I have no idea what to do with a child,” Castiel said quietly.  
   
Dean grimaced. “Is he going to be, you know, mostly human?”  
   
“Doubtful.”  
   
“Well, fuck.” Dean rubbed at his eyes again. He reached out a hand and clapped it on top of Castiel’s jiggling knee. “Would you stop that?”  
   
“My apologies.” A pinkish tinge rose in Castiel’s cheeks. He stilled, though his hands continued to clench and unclench.  
   
After a long look, Dean took his hand away. “So he’s what—half angel? What’s this kid going to be capable of?”  
   
For the first time, Castiel looked uncertain. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I met a naphil only once and it was,” he took a breath, “very brief.”  
   
“So there are others. Other, uh, _naphils_. Or whatever.”  
   
“Nephilim. Naphil is singular.”  
   
“Right. There are others.”  
   
“No,” Castiel said shortly. His mouth was drawn tight. “She was the last. I killed her for Metatron’s spell.”  
   
Dean stared at him. “Are you serious?”  
   
Castiel gave him a look. “If I had still been under orders from Heaven, it would have been the same. The nephilim are an abomination in Heaven’s eyes.” He leaned against the chair, tilting his head back. “They were all hunted down and killed long ago. Afterwards, angels were forbidden to consort with women and to sire children.”  
   
“Uh,” said Dean blankly. “And why was that, exactly?”  
   
Hands clasped together in his lap, Castiel spoke to the ceiling. “The Watchers were sent down from Heaven, and they took wives. But when God saw what they had done, and what their children had become, he punished them. The nephilim and their families were slaughtered to the last child.”  
   
“What they had become?”  
   
Castiel was staring into the distance now, his expression haunted. “Tyrants,” he said. “Sorcerers, practitioners of the black arts.”  
   
“What, all of them?” Dean said, incredulous.  
   
Castiel breathed out heavily. “No,” he admitted. “But a great many.”  
   
Dean frowned. “Why?”  
   
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Castiel’s shoulders lifted, then dropped. “I suppose it must have been very difficult, to be born mortal, yet in possession of an angel’s grace. Perhaps they went insane.”  
   
Dean was quiet for a moment, the question unspoken between them. “That’s not going to happen to your kid,” he said finally. “I mean it, Cas.” He shifted and got to his feet, his hand brushing past the back of Castiel’s neck as he walked over to the kitchenette. He bent down and opened one of the cupboards, pulling out a pair of dusty shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He rinsed out the glasses, then poured the amber liquid inside, before leaving the bottle on the counter and making his way back over to Castiel. “Here,” he said, pushing one of the glasses into Castiel’s hand.  
   
“Thank you,” Castiel said quietly. Dean clinked their glasses together.  
   
“To, uh, you being a dad I guess,” he said, looking anywhere but at Castiel, and downing his whiskey in one swallow. Castiel followed suit, gravely placing his empty glass on the table when he had finished.  
   
“Thank you, Dean—” he began again, but Dean waved him away, making a face.  
   
“Seriously, Cas,” he said. “Did you really think I’d leave your kid stranded? Even if I am still pissed at you,” he added.  
   
“You’re a good man,” Castiel said bluntly. He shook his head when Dean raised a very skeptical eyebrow. “I mean it, Dean.”  
   
“Yeah, well.” Dean lurched to his feet to grab the abandoned whiskey bottle from the counter, and poured himself another glass. “You’re not exactly the best judge of a guy’s character, Cas,” he said as he leaned against the counter, whiskey at his lips. “No offense.”  
   
At that, Castiel allowed his mouth to curl into a half-smile. “None taken,” he said. He held out his glass. Dean blinked for a moment, then let out a quiet huff of laughter, and filled it up. They both drank.  
   
“So,” Dean said, wiping his mouth and placing the glass on the counter. “What’s the plan?”  
   
“I don’t have one,” Castiel admitted. He looked up at Dean, running his fingers around the rim of his glass. “I thought you might, uh, have some ideas.”  
   
Dean snorted. “Try again,” he said.  
   
“Of course the main goal is to retrieve the child without injury,” Castiel mused.  
   
“No kidding.”  
   
“Crowley mentioned a deal.”  
   
“What a surprise.”  
   
Castiel ignored him. “I don’t know what Crowley could possibly want.” He took in Dean’s expression, and amended, “I mean, in this particular instance.”  
   
Dean sighed. “Somehow, just walking right in there doesn’t sound like the best plan.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said suddenly. “Dean, it could be me.”  
   
“Uh, what?”  
   
“Dean, if Crowley demands me in exchange for the child—”  
   
“Dude, no. Seriously? We’re not going there.” Dean began to turn away towards the sink.  
   
“ _Dean_.” Castiel reached out to pull at his sleeve. Dean tried to yank it free and found that he couldn’t. He settled for glowering instead.  
   
“Cas, you’re going to stretch the fabric out.” Castiel refused to let go, gaze intent. Dean felt an uncomfortable tingling on the back of his neck. “Okay, fine,” he said irritably. “You end up in Crowley’s clutches, I’ll take the kid.”  
   
At that, Castiel released him, sitting back in his chair. “Thank you,” he nodded.  
   
“Ugh, you’ve ruined the sleeve,” Dean complained, tugging it at.  
   
“Sorry,” Castiel said, not sounding remotely apologetic.  
   
“No, you’re not.”  
   
“What time are you and Sam planning to leave tomorrow?”  
   
“Don’t know.” Dean dropped the fabric. “Probably early, if we want to get set-up. You want to ride with us?”  
   
Castiel caught his gaze. “Please.”  
   
“Yeah, fine.” Dean cleared his throat. “Is Crowley in Grand Junction?”  
   
At the question, Castiel looked uncertain. “I’m not sure. I cannot sense him there, but he could be using warding.” His jaw clenched. “He must be using something to hide the child’s presence from me.”  
   
“So,” Dean said, hip cocked against the counter, “don’t take this the wrong way, but how come you didn’t sense this kid when he was born? I mean, he has to be four or five years old by now.”  
   
Castiel’s lips thinned. “I was insane. I was in purgatory. I was brainwashed.” He drained the rest of his glass. “Take your pick, Dean. They’re all true.”  
   
“Huh.” Dean’s mouth twisted. “Why do you think you sensed him now?”  
   
Castiel tilted his head. “I expect his grace has been developing. Either that, or the trauma of being kidnapped by the King of Hell was enough to awaken it.”  
   
Dean swallowed. “You don’t think he’d, uh, _do_ anything to the kid, do you?” Their eyes met, Castiel’s expression darkening.  
   
“He wouldn’t dare.” He slammed the shot glass onto the table hard enough that a crack appeared at the base. Dean tried not to jump.  
   
“Okay,” he said, hands out, placating. He plucked the glass from Castiel’s grasp before he could do any more damage. “You going to try going up to Heaven?”  
   
“What for?” Castiel narrowed his eyes. “If Heaven got wind of this child’s existence, they would end it more swiftly than Crowley and his demons.”  
   
“I meant for the mom. See if she’s up there?”  
   
For a few moments, Castiel’s expression was considering, but then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “It would be too great a risk. If she is not with Crowley and the boy, then perhaps. But I would,” he inhaled, “I would first see the child safe, before potentially alerting the rest of his enemies.”  
   
“You really think they’d try and kill him.”  
   
Castiel’s jaw clenched. “I don’t think. I know.”  
   
Dean was watching him carefully now. “And you?”  
   
Castiel’s head shot up, his face stricken. “How could you ask that?”  
   
“You’ve already killed one naphil,” Dean pointed out. He crossed his arms. “You would’ve killed that Jesse kid.”  
   
“I had not yet rebelled.” Castiel’s face was drawn. “I was operating under Heaven’s will. Not my own.”  
   
“Hey, man.” Dean stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I just gotta make sure. Be pretty terrible to rescue this kid from the King of Hell, only to get him killed by a bunch of angels.”  
   
Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes. I know.” He took a deep breath. “I am not a danger to this child. I will protect him.”  
   
A small smile tugged at the corner of Dean’s mouth. He clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Okay, man,” he said. “Guess we better go get your kid.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Grand Junction,” Dean mused, as they passed a sign declaring three miles to. He glanced into the rearview mirror at Castiel’s stony face. “You know, the last time Sam and I were here, we almost got eaten?”  
   
“We didn’t almost get eaten.”  
   
“Shut it, Sam. We were next on the menu.”  
   
In the back, Castiel frowned. “Vampires?”  
   
“Nah, Wendigo.” Dean’s face turned pensive. “That was way back. When we were still looking for dad, and he was after old Yellow Eyes.”  
   
“I see.” Castiel was nodding. “Before we met.”  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“Much has changed since then.”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean fixed on the road again. “It has.”  
   
Unnoticed by either Dean or Castiel, Sam rolled his eyes.  
   
About twenty minutes later, Castiel’s phone vibrated. Castiel peered down at it, then tapped Dean on the shoulder. “I have received a message from Crowley,” he announced.  
   
“Yeah?” Sam turned around, fingers splayed across the leather of the seatbench. “What’s he say?”  
   
Dean sought Castiel in the mirror again. “He send you another video?”  
   
“No. Just a text.” Castiel was squinting at the screen. “He is confirming our meeting time of eight o’clock. At a…” his eyes narrowed even further, “at an Italian Bistro?”  
   
Dean nearly swerved off the road. “He wants to meet in public?”  
   
“So it would seem.” Castiel tapped the screen again. “The restaurant appears to be on the main thoroughfare.”  
   
“Well that’s…” Sam hesitated. “That’s kind of weird.”  
   
“I’m never going to get over the fact that you own and operate a smartphone,” said Dean, still watching as Castiel prodded at his screen some more.  
   
Sam was biting down on his lower lip. “So, we’re just going to walk on in there and meet Crowley for dinner?” He wrinkled his nose a little. “I don’t know, man.”  
   
“The place’ll probably be crawling with demons.” Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, mouth pursing in thought. “Crowley doesn’t leave anything to chance.”  
   
“They have a very long wine list,” Castiel reported. Sam gave him an incredulous look while Dean just grimaced.  
   
“That’s great, Cas,” he said. He slowed to take the next exit, just off of downtown Grand Junction. “I don’t think we should be worrying about the menu right now.”  
   
Castiel put his phone away and leaned forwards, bracing himself on the seatback. “Do you think he’ll bring the child?”  
   
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. “Doubt it,” said Dean.  
   
“Hey, Cas,” Sam said suddenly. “Does Crowley know we’re with you?”  
   
Castiel licked his lips. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t.”  
   
“But you never explicitly told him that we were coming,” Sam pressed.  
   
Dean eased on the brakes as they rolled to a stop at a red light. “Dude, you think Crowley isn’t going to expect us to be here? Seriously?”  
   
“I’m just saying,” Sam shrugged, “if Crowley’s not expecting us to be here, then maybe we have the advantage.”  
   
Slowly, Castiel nodded, sitting back in his seat. “You’re suggesting that I enter the restaurant alone.”  
   
“No, that’s not what he’s suggesting,” Dean snapped. He revved the engine as the light turned green.  
   
“Well, not _alone,_ alone,” Sam hedged.  
   
“Sam!”  
   
“What?” Sam twisted back to face front.  
   
“We can’t just let Cas waltz on in to the devil’s lair.” Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly as he took the next left. “No way.”  
   
From his place in the back seat, Castiel scowled. “Crowley is hardly the devil, Dean,” he said. “I am more than a match for him.”  
   
“You know, I think I’ve heard that one before.” Dean took another turn, this time into a Motel 6 parking lot. He parked, then turned off the ignition. He braced himself against the steering wheel as he swiveled to eye Castiel. “Didn’t go well that time, either.”  
   
“Dean, come on,” said Sam. He cracked open the door, sticking his legs out to stretch. The smell of grass and freshly laid manure wafted towards them. “Cas goes in alone, maybe we have a chance to figure out where Crowley’s stashing the kid.”  
   
“What if the kid’s with Crowley?”  
   
“Then Cas can get him,” Sam said, voice reasonable. “At least we’ll know where he is.” He popped open the impala’s trunk and hoisted his duffle bag. Dean ground his teeth as he and Castiel got out as well. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on their shoulders.  
   
“Sam—”  
   
“No,” Castiel interrupted. He stood with his hands at his sides, mouth firm. “Sam’s right. If Crowley believes I am the only one looking for the child, then his guard will be down. If he is with Crowley, then I have a chance. If he is elsewhere and you find him, then you can contact me, and I will come.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said, “there’s no way Crowley’s not going to expect us.”  
   
Castiel looked down at the ground. “To sire a naphil is a shameful thing,” he said. “Crowley knows this.”  
   
“Whoa.” Dean rounded on him. “What the hell, man? You better not let that kid hear that you’re ashamed of him.”  
   
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Castiel sighed. He closed the door of the impala. “I can lead Crowley to assume that I haven’t informed you. That I was too—” he hesitated, then barreled on, “too ashamed to tell you.”  
   
“And he’d believe that?” Dean’s face was close to his now. Castiel’s gaze flickered away, towards Dean’s mouth, then back up again.  
   
“Crowley has known me to be prideful,” he said. “He would not hesitate to believe the worst of me.”  
   
Dean grimaced. “I still don’t like it,” he said, even as he drew away. Castiel let out a breath.  
   
“You can still accompany me,” he offered. “Just—hidden.”  
   
“Or I could,” said Sam, coming up to them. His face was shaded by the lone pine tree planted just off the side of the parking lot. Its branches shivered a little in the spring wind. Sam ducked under a spray of pine needles as he began to head towards the check-in. Dean moved to follow him, but Castiel stayed him with one hand on his arm.  
   
“Dean.”  
   
Dean twisted back to look at him. “Yeah?”  
   
“I do appreciate your offer to accompany me.” Castiel’s gaze was steady. His trench coat fluttered a little behind him. “But if Crowley has stashed the child elsewhere, I would trust no one but you to find him.”  
   
Dean felt his cheeks heat up. “Cas,” he said, “come on.” He jerked his shoulder in the direction of the main building.  
   
Inclining his head, Castiel began to walk. “I’m being serious, Dean.”  
   
“Yeah, well,” Dean said, still not really looking at Castiel. There were a lot of potholes in the parking lot, he noticed. He’d have to be careful driving. “Even if we do that, we still have to figure out a way to find that kid.”  
   
Castiel furrowed his brow in thought. “Yes, that is a problem.”  
   
Dean snorted. “No kidding.”  
   
They passed through the double doors into the flickering fluorescent light of the check-in. A woman in her late fifties sat behind a cheap-looking plastic counter, her attention engrossed in that morning’s copy of The Daily Sentinel. Castiel made a curious face at the collection of off-white doilies and framed lace handkerchiefs, while Sam tossed Dean a key.  
   
“Two queens,” he said.  
   
The woman behind the counter barely looked up from her crossword. “Room thirty-five, down near the end,” she said, not bothering to remove the pen from her mouth. Like a sixth sense Dean saw Castiel, his gaze flickering from doilies on the tables to the lace in her curly hair, open _his_ mouth, no doubt to ask something very insensitive. Before disaster could strike, he gave Castiel’s sleeve a hard tug.  
   
“Come on,” he said.  
   
The room itself was surprisingly not dingy. The curtains even looked like they had been cleaned in the past decade. Dean dumped his duffle on the bed closer to the door. Sam, who had claimed the one next to the window before Dean’s foot was even across the threshold, was already pawing through his bag.  
   
“What are you doing?” Dean asked, feeling more than seeing as Castiel sat down on his bed, the mattress dipping below him.  
   
“I have an idea.” Sam pulled out a set of candles and tossed them aside. Dean’s hackles were immediately raised.  
   
“An idea for _what_ , exactly?”  
   
Sam looked up. “Cas can’t sense the kid.” He pulled a face. “No offense,” he added.  
   
“None taken.” Castiel sipped on his coffee. Dean did a double take.  
   
“Where did you get the coffee?”  
   
“They had some at the front desk.” Castiel peered over the rim of his Styrofoam cup. “It was on the tables with the…lace things.”  
   
“Doilies.”  
   
“Doilies,” Castiel repeated, squinting.  
   
“Okay, anyway,” Sam said, eyebrows drawing together. “Point is, Cas can’t sense the kid, right?”  
   
Castiel saluted him with the cup in a motion eerily reminiscent of Dean. “That is correct.”  
   
Sam blinked for a moment, and then shook himself. “Right,” he muttered. “Okay, so Crowley’s blocking the kid’s grace. Or whatever.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said, sitting down on the bed. He held his hand out for Castiel’s coffee. After a moment of serious consideration, Castiel handed it to him. Dean took a sip, made a face, then handed it back. “We’ve already been through this.”  
   
Sam nodded. “But Crowley’s probably got more guarding this kid than some sigils, right? He’s probably got a bunch of demons with him too.”  
   
“So what you’re saying is,” Dean accepted the coffee again, “we find a bunch of demons holed up somewhere, we find the kid.” He took another drink of the coffee and then set it on the bedside table. “Cas, that coffee’s really foul. We’ll have to get some better stuff.”  
   
“Agreed.” The lines in Castiel’s forehead deepened. “I think Sam’s idea has merit.”  
   
Dean looked at Sam. “What do you want the candles for?”  
   
“Well,” Sam sighed, “I thought maybe we could try to do one of Bobby’s locator spells.”  
   
“To find demons?” The corners of Dean’s mouth turned down. “I don’t know if that would work.”  
   
“There is no need,” Castiel said. “I can sense demons. It should be little trouble to locate a large group of them.”  
   
“Not if they have angel-proofing and hex bags,” Dean objected, as Castiel half rose from the bed. “They’re expecting you, man. They know you can do that stuff.”  
   
Castiel hesitated. He closed his eyes for a moment, clearly focusing elsewhere. After a minute or so, he opened them again with an exhale. “You’re right,” he said. He sat back down, staring at his hands. “I cannot sense them.” The frustration in his voice was clear. Sam and Dean glanced at each other.  
   
“Sorry,” Dean said awkwardly. He shifted, worrying the hem of his jacket. “Too bad we can’t just—sniff them out. I don’t know.” He fished out the complimentary copy of the newspaper he’d stuck into his coat pocket, and brandished it. “I didn’t see anything funky in the paper, either. Or at least, nothing that screamed ‘Demon Party Here In Grand Junction.’”  
   
“We could still try my locator spell,” Sam suggested. He made a tentative move towards the candles.  
   
“No.” Castiel’s voice was glum. “The hex bags and ‘angel-proofing’ as you say, would make it ineffectual even if we could modify it to search for demons.” His whole body slumped. “I suppose at this point, the only thing we can do is to meet with Crowley.”  
   
They collapsed into a heavy silence. Outside, the shadows were lengthening. The sounds of cars driving past were muted somewhat by the window, but Dean could still hear a dog barking, high pitched and yappy. He sat upright.  
   
“I have a really stupid idea.” He turned to Castiel, who was gnawing on his lower lip. “Cas. How many languages do you speak?”  
   
Castiel eyed him curiously. “All of them.”  
   
Dean tilted his head. “Does that include dog?”  
   
Across the room, Sam’s mouth dropped a little. “Dean,” he said. “Are you serious?”  
   
“Dog?” Castiel’s lips twisted. “I suppose. I’ve never actually attempted it.”  
   
“Dean, come on,” said Sam.  
   
“What?” Dean straightened his shoulders. “If I could communicate with a dog, he should definitely be able to do it.” He thumbed at Castiel, whose face was now one big considering frown.  
   
“Dean, we used a spell for that.”  
   
“He’s an angel. I think he qualifies,” Dean defended. He looked at Castiel. “So?”  
   
“What kind of dog?”  
   
“Ah,” Dean said. He held a finger up to his nose. “For this, I think we’d have to steal a bloodhound, but—” he shut his mouth as Castiel vanished. “Okay, I didn’t mean go right this instant,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “I was going to explain the rest of it.”  
   
“But, Dean,” Sam said, arms crossed, looking a little disappointedly down at his set of candles, “we don’t have anything of the kid’s. What’s a dog even going look for?”  
   
At the question, Dean grinned. “Demons, Sammy,” he said. He leaned his chair back, hands spread. “Probably tons of them, if I know Crowley,” he shuddered a little, “and I do.” He then got to his feet, cocking an eyebrow at his dubious brother, and drawing him in with an arm around his shoulders. “Sulfur.”  
   
 

#

   
   
“This is very weird,” Sam commented. He propped himself up against the side of the bathroom door, watching as Castiel crouched in front of the dog, their eyes never leaving one another.  
   
Dean gave a fervent nod, checking his watch again.  
   
“Maximillian says he will be able to find the ‘sulfur-monsters’,” Castiel reported, still engrossed in his canine staring contest. “But he will need somewhere to start.”  
   
Dean shoved another knife into his belt and checked the safety on his .45. “Should probably start at that restaurant.”  
   
“Crowley might already be there.” Castiel stood, brushing off his knees. Maximillian whined and nudged his hand. Castiel’s hand drifted absently to scratch behind the dog’s floppy ears.  
   
“His goons will be there too.”  
   
Castiel looked down. “Maximillian requests a biscuit for his assistance.”  
   
“Well, Max.” Dean placed his hands on his hips. “You find those demons, I’ll give you a lifetime supply of doggy treats. Okay?”  
   
Maximillian barked, then trotted over to a guilty looking Sam, who was already holding out a dog biscuit.  
   
“That would hardly be healthful,” Castiel said severely.  
   
“Yeah, whatever.” Dean waved him away. “You think they’ll notice him missing?” He abruptly twisted to point a finger at Sam, who was already at the dog’s level, enthusiastically rubbing his jowly head. “And no, we’re not keeping him, Sam.”  
   
“I didn’t say anything,” Sam said, indignant, even as he fed the dog a second biscuit. Maximillian rolled onto his back.  
   
“Yeah, well. You were thinking it.” Dean turned back to Castiel, hands in his pockets. “We’ve still got a couple of hours until you’re supposed to meet with Crowley. How about us and Fido start sniffing around the perimeter, while you stake the place out?”  
   
“His name is Maximillian.”  
   
“Whatever, Cas.” Dean heaved a sigh. “Does that work for you or not?”  
   
Castiel was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Yes. That seems reasonable.”  
   
“Okay.” Dean jerked his head at Sam. “Come on, Sam.” He looked at the dog. “You too, Max.” In response, the dog just tilted his head at Castiel. Dean wrinkled his nose. “Cas, you’re going to have to explain to the dog that he has to do what we say, or this isn’t going to go very far.”  
   
“Yes, very well.” Castiel crouched down to lock eyes with the dog again. Sam and Dean waited.  
   
“You know, I bet a bloodhound would come in useful for a lot of hunts,” Sam said idly, running his fingers along the doorjamb. Dean shut his eyes.  
   
“No.”  
   
“I’m just saying.”  
   
“We’re not getting one.”  
   
“There’s a lot of space in the bunker…”  
   
Dean rolled his eyes, peeling himself away from the wall. “Cas, are you ready?” As he spoke, Castiel was getting to his feet once more. He produced a leash, which he clipped to Maximillian’s collar.  
   
“Yes. As is Maximillian.”  
   
Sam’s face twitched a little in concern. “Uh, Cas?” he said. “You didn’t _borrow_ him from anyone local, did you? Like, someone who might recognize him when we walk down the street?”  
   
Castiel handed the leash to Sam. “I liberated him from a small police force in Belgium.”  
   
“Oh. Okay.” Sam grasped the leash while Dean mouthed the word _liberated_ to himself.  
   
“So, not only are you speaking _dog_ , you’re speaking _Belgian-Dog_.” Dean scratched his head. “Gotta say, man, I’m impressed.”  
   
“He understands Dutch and French,” Castiel corrected. “And a little English. At any rate, it’s very late there. He should not be missed. Certainly, no one will recognize him here.”  
   
“Well,” said Dean, shrugging on his jacket, “let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”  
    

#

  
   
Despite Dean’s reluctance, Maximillian jumped into the impala as soon as Castiel opened the door. Dean gripped the side of the car and prayed for strength as he got in himself.  
   
“Do not drool anywhere,” he instructed. He smacked Sam’s hand, already holding out another biscuit. “Really, Sam? Can you hold off until the dog actually does his job?”  
   
“Sorry,” Sam muttered, stuffing the biscuit back into his pocket. In the back seat, Castiel was slowly stroking Maximillian’s head, speaking to him in a low murmur of Enochian.  
   
“What are you saying to him?” Dean asked, after five minutes of driving and pretending not to care. Castiel glanced over to him.  
   
“I’m thanking him,” he said simply.  
   
“Huh.” Dean snuck a glimpse at the pair through the rearview mirror. “What for?”  
   
“For his assistance.”  
   
Dean sighed. Trust Castiel to thank a dog.  
   
“There!” Sam said, pointing at a storefront with warm brown awning and wooden railings. “That’s the restaurant.” He turned his head as they drove past it. The windows were dark, and no one sat outside on the patio. “Doesn’t look open yet.”  
   
“Looks fancy,” Dean commented, as he slowed. He continued driving another block, then turned down a side street and parked, just in front of a small yellow house. He shifted to face Sam. “I feel like we need disguises.”  
   
“You think?” Sam looked skeptical. Dean pursed his lips, straightening his jacket.  
   
“Let’s be honest here, Sam. At this point, I think every demon in the world probably knows our ugly mugs.”  
   
Sam snorted. “Maybe _your_ ugly mug.”  
   
“Hey.” Dean socked him in the shoulder.  
   
“I believe that is a gross exaggeration,” Castiel put in. He opened the car door, and let out a highly undignified yelping sound as the dog barreled out on top of his lap. Dean didn’t even bother to hide his snigger. Castiel glared. “I do not believe that the two of you have any disguises,” Castiel said, voice prim.  
   
“Well then go get us some, angel-boy.” Dean wiggled his fingers, still grinning. Castiel narrowed his eyes.  
   
“Come on, Dean,” Sam was saying. “We’ll be fine.”  
   
But Castiel wasn’t having any of it. He gripped Dean’s arm, fingers strong enough to leave red bruises. “We do not have time for this.”  
   
“Cas, it’s fine. We’re just messing around. Letting out some tension, you know?”  
   
“It is not fine!” Castiel’s voice cracked on that last bit. He swallowed, visibly composing himself while Dean eyed him, a little wary, a little fascinated at such an incongruously human gesture from a being that was anything but. “Dean, we cannot afford to make a mistake here.”  
   
“Cas.” Dean’s voice was serious now, all traces of humor gone. “You’re going to have to trust me on this. We’re going to get this done.”  
   
“I do trust you.” Castiel’s fingers slipped off of Dean’s arm. He looked down at the cracked sidewalk, the little green weeds shooting up in all the empty spaces. “I apologize. I am—unsettled.”  
   
“Cas, he’s your kid. You’ve got a right to be freaked out,” Sam said, eyebrows linked together, the very dictionary definition of concern. Castiel shook his head.  
   
“I’ve never even met him.”  
   
“That doesn’t matter,” Dean said. He pulled Castiel back as he tried to turn away. “No, man. Look at me.” Unwillingly, Castiel took in Dean’s face, his steady eyes, the stubborn set to his chin. Dean continued, “He’s your family. And we’re going to do everything we can to get him back, okay?”  
   
Castiel found his vocal cords again. “But what if—”  
   
“No.” Dean’s voice was at his ear now, his thumb and forefinger digging into the juncture of Castiel’s neck and shoulder, a reassuring squeeze. “That’s not going to happen.”  
   
Castiel thought about that for a moment, how here he was—a creature of millennia and light—and this piece of flesh and blood and mortality sought to comfort him. Dean’s hand was warm. “I trust you,” Castiel said again, quiet.  
   
Dean stilled for a moment, “Good,” he said roughly. He cleared his throat.  
   
“Good,” Castiel echoed.  
   
Sam coughed. “We should get going.” He fidgeted with the leash, looping it around one hand and then the other, not really looking at Dean and Castiel. “We should see if Max catches a scent before Crowley gets there to set up shop.”  
   
“If he’s not there already.” Dean withdrew his hand from Castiel. The rest of him followed as he stepped away. Though Castiel had no human need to worry about things like cold and hot, he felt oddly chilled at the loss of contact. He shook himself.  
   
“Maximillian,” he said. The dog raised his head. “Let’s go.”  
   
They headed back towards the restaurant. Sam and the dog walked in front, Maximillian’s nose to the ground, tail wagging enthusiastically. Dean and Castiel followed a little bit behind.  
   
“How will we know if he’s found a trail?” Dean asked, as they stepped out onto Main Street.  
   
“He’ll tell me,” Castiel said. He wasn’t really looking at Dean, too preoccupied with scanning the windows of the buildings they passed, the people sitting inside them. Dean barely refrained from rolling his eyes.  
   
“And when you’re not there?”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel stopped. “You’re right.”  
   
Dean sighed. “And?”  
   
“I’ll talk to him about that.” Castiel began to walk again, though it was only a few feet until they hit the door of the restaurant. As soon as they stood in front of the entryway, they all blinked down at the dog.  
   
“Anything?”  
   
Maximillian wagged his tail, then sat on his haunches, tongue rolling out.  
   
“I’m going to go with a no,” Dean muttered.  
   
“Maybe if we walk around to the parking lot, or the back,” Sam suggested.  
   
“I don’t know.” Dean rested his hand against the stucco side of the building. “What if they took a car or something?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “Might as well try.”  
   
“This way,” said Castiel.  
   
They trooped through the parking lot towards the back, trying to look as ordinary as possible—quite the feat for two grown men, an angel, and a bloodhound all snooping around the trash. But twenty minutes in of Maximillian sniffing enthusiastically at half-eaten pasta and other lunch scraps, and Dean was about ready to call it a day.  
   
The creak of the back door opening was the only warning they had to scramble behind the dumpster. Luckily, the man towing out the trash was too preoccupied with not dropping the bags to notice them. He tossed first one and then the other into the dumpster, wiping his hands on his apron, grumbling under his breath.  
   
Dean turned to look at Castiel, who had gone rigid. Maximillian’s lip drew back in the beginnings of snarl. Dean’s fingers inched down towards his belt, where he’d previously stuck Ruby’s knife.  
   
The sound of footsteps, and then the back door banged shut again. Dean let out a breath. “Demon?”  
   
“Demon,” Castiel growled, stepping out from behind the dumpster. He looked torn, like he wanted to go charging inside the kitchen, but also like he could sense that that was a very bad plan. “They must be masking their presence inside the building itself.”  
   
“At least now we know they’re here,” Sam said. He led Maximillian around to the back door. The dog immediately set to sniffing, then began straining at the leash. Dean put his hands on his hips.  
   
“Waiters are probably all possessed. Crowley doesn’t leave stuff like this to chance.” He nodded towards the dog. “He’s not just going to lead us into the kitchen, is he?”  
   
“I will explain,” Castiel said, stepping forward. He knelt, drawing Maximillian’s head towards him. Dog and angel locked eyes.  
   
“Dean, that demon could come back outside any minute,” Sam said, shuffling over to him while Castiel and the dog got their communication on. “We should go.”  
   
“Just a minute, Sammy.” Dean turned to Castiel. “All set?”  
   
“Ready.” Castiel got to his feet, brushing dirt off his knees, then turned to Sam. “I’ve told Maximillian to follow any sulfur smell leading away from this restaurant. With any luck,” the corners of his mouth turned down, “Crowley is keeping the child somewhere close.”  
   
“Wonderful,” said Dean. “I always enjoy relying on luck.” He checked his watch. “You’re supposed to meet Crowley in three hours. If the trail is anywhere near here, we might even find it before you have to meet.”  
   
“Yes, all right.” Castiel straightened his tie.  
   
Still straining at the leash, Maximillian let out a low bark. “Uh,” said Sam, blinking down at him. “I guess he knows where to go?”  
   
“Let’s go then,” Dean said impatiently, brushing past Sam back towards the parking lot. Sam gave him a look. Dean paused for a moment, then with a sigh, waved toward Maximillian. “My bad,” he said. “After you, Max.”  
   
They headed down the street, Maximillain at the front, his nose to the concrete. Despite his own strength, Sam found that he had to keep a firm grip on the leash, to avoid being pulled himself. He wrapped the leash tightly around his hand, almost jogging to keep up with the dog.  
   
While Maximillian was definitely after _something_ , any hopes they had of finding a nest of demons close by the restaurant, was slowly fading. Maximillian led them first west and then steadily north, following the meander of the Colorado River. As it grew darker, Dean called a halt. He stomped river mud from his boots, slapped a mosquito from his neck, and checked his watch, while Sam tugged insistently at a still straining Maximillian.  
   
“Cas, you’ve got fifteen minutes,” he said. “You’ve got to get back.”  
   
Castiel’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “I can still go a little longer,” he said. “We’re almost out of the city now. They have to be close.”  
   
“Cas…” Dean trailed off. Feeling particularly useless, his hands hanging at his sides, he looked toward his brother for help.  
   
Sam stepped in. “We can’t let Crowley know what’s up,” he said. “You have to meet him on time.”  
   
“But.” Castiel’s gaze switched from one Winchester to the other. He bowed his head.  
   
“Cas, you’ve got to let us do this.” Dean was close enough to reach a shoulder now. He let his hand rest there for the briefest of moments. “You have to trust us. We’ll find the kid.”  
   
Castiel looked up. “When you find him,” he said intently, “pray for me.”  
   
Dean nodded, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s face. Castiel took a deep breath, cast one more longing look towards the trail, and then, with the soft sound of wings beating, he was gone.  
   
Dean let out a long exhale. “Come on.”  
  
 

#

  
   
Rather than flying straight to the restaurant, Castiel opted instead to head for where they had parked the impala. He took a moment to center himself, breathing deep, and using the side mirror to straighten his clothes and run a hand through his hair. It didn’t do much except mess it even more, and Castiel quickly abandoned that road.  
   
He didn’t know why he was so unsettled. He should feel no need to present himself nicely for Crowley’s sake. Rather—  
   
It wasn't impossible that Crowley had brought the child with him to the restaurant. It was best he be prepared.  
   
Gently tapping on the impala’s trunk and hearing a satisfying click, he lifted it and the fake bottom out of the way to peruse through the Winchesters’ armory. He selected a second angel blade, and slid it into his sleeve to join his own in the ether, just in case. He was sure that Dean would not begrudge him this.   
   
He closed the trunk and relocked it with a thought. Adjusting his coat one more time, he began to walk back towards the restaurant.  
   
If he hadn’t already been alerted to the fact that likely the entire restaurant staff was possessed at this point, it would have been immediately clear upon arrival. Nevertheless, he steeled himself, following the demon possessing the hostess towards a booth in the back, where Crowley sat waiting for him.  
   
He was alone.  
   
“Why, Castiel,” said Crowley. He raised an eyebrow. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”  
   
Castiel narrowed his eyes, but said nothing as he slid into the booth.  
   
“I took the liberty of ordering for the both of us.” Crowley’s upper lip curled in a half-smile. “I hope you don't mind.”  
   
“Where is the child?”  
   
Crowley cast his gaze towards the ceiling. “Straight to business with you, as always I see.”  
   
“Crowley,” Castiel growled.  
   
“Relax, Castiel.” Crowley pushed a glass of red wine over to him. Castiel didn’t touch it. “The boy is fine. I’m taking good care of the little sprog.” His look turned sly. “I have to say though, I was very impressed when I figured out who his father was. Even I didn’t think you’d ever go that far.”  
   
“You kidnapped him. He is not fine,” Castiel grit out. Below the table, his hands clenched around his knees.  
   
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,” Crowley said. He took a sip of his wine. “You know, your boy was in the foster care system? I probably did him a favor.”  
   
The furrow between Castiel’s eyebrows deepened. Something in his chest twinged. “What happened to his mother?”  
   
“Don’t know, don’t care.” Crowley shrugged. “Although, given what tends to happen to people who associate with you, you really shouldn't be surprised that she’s not with us anymore.”  
   
Castiel couldn't help a sharp inhale, but did not rise to the bait. Crowley put his wine glass down and reached for a breadstick.  
   
“You could go up to heaven and just…check though, couldn't you?” As Castiel said nothing, Crowley continued knowingly. “Or maybe it would be best not to alert your family about the newest member. I wonder, have you even told Squirrel about your latest embarrassment?”  
   
Castiel’s jaw worked. “What do you want, Crowley?” he said bluntly.  
   
“Ah, now we get to the good part.” Crowley waved his hand as a possessed waitress set down a large steak in front of him, and what looked like a plate of plain spaghetti with marinara sauce in front of Castiel. “You want your boy back—well, maybe _back_ isn’t quite the correct term here,” he mused, cutting into his steak. “You have been a rather absent father.” He waggled his fork at Castiel. “Not very angelic of you.”  
   
“I didn’t know of his existence,” Castiel said, face like stone. Crowley looked interested for a moment, then went back to cutting his steak.  
   
“I assume you must have felt the kiddo’s grace as soon as it pinged my radar.”  
   
“That was three months ago.”  
   
“Yes, I know. You are a really terrible father.” Crowley popped a bite of meat into his mouth and chewed. “Luckily, I’m a better one and got to him first.”  
   
Expression murderous, Castiel had already half-risen out of his seat when Crowley tapped on his glass.  
   
“Now, now, Castiel. Wouldn’t want to alarm the patrons, would you?” He nodded towards the rest of the restaurant.  
   
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Castiel realized that while the staff members were all undoubtedly possessed, the customers were, for the most part, still human. Seething, Castiel sunk back into his seat.  
   
“That’s better,” said Crowley, picking up his fork again. “Now, about our deal.”  
   
“You haven’t said what you want.”  
   
“Castiel,” Crowley said, holding a hand to his heart and looking injured. “I _want_ to return your son to you.”  
   
“You are trying my patience.”  
   
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, darling,” he said, smirking. “Habit.” He took another bite of steak, washing it down the some wine, and wiping his fingers daintily on the white cloth napkin. “Now,” he said. “It’s really very simple. The boy is half angel. He has a very unique grace. And I want it.”  
   
Castiel stared at him. “You want his grace?” he repeated.  
   
“Yes, Castiel,” Crowley huffed. “I want his grace.” He leaned forward, gaze intent. “Do you have any idea what I could do with a naphil’s grace? Also, bonus for you: I’m relatively sure that the removal process wouldn’t kill him. In fact,” Crowley continued, seemingly very pleased with himself, “it might actually be better for him in the long run.”  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
Crowley shot him an exasperated look. “Really, Castiel. Considering how many of the nephilim went mad, I’d say we have ample evidence that grace doesn’t mix so well with a mortal’s soul.” Ignoring the clearly growing fury on Castiel’s face, Crowley added, “You could think of it like a medical procedure if you’d like. Like getting his tonsils removed.” He smiled. “As I said, better for him the long run.”  
   
Above their table, a light bulb shattered.  
   
“Please refrain from causing a scene, Castiel,” said Crowley. “This is purely business.”  
   
Gritting his teeth, Castiel focused on calming his breathing. Finally he said, “If you want the boy’s grace, why haven’t you taken it already?”  
   
Rather theatrically, Crowley sighed. “Yes, of course I did try that,” he said, holding out his wineglass for a refill. “I ran into a bit of a snag. So that's why I need you to do it.”  
   
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I beg your pardon,” he said flatly. “For what, exactly, do you need me?”  
   
Crowley folded his hands on the table. “Here’s my deal for you, Castiel,” he said. “I take you to the boy.” He waved towards the door, and then pointed at Castiel. “You cut out his grace. You give me his grace,” Crowley pointed at himself, “and you get to keep the rest of him.”


	3. Chapter 3

Not even ten minutes after Castiel had left for his meeting with Crowley, Maximillian stopped in the middle of what he was doing to let out a long, baying howl. Dean frantically attempted to shush him.  
   
“We must be close,” Sam said. He unwrapped the leash from his hand and shook it out, massaging the red marks pressed into his skin.  
   
“Oh jeeze, you think?” Dean bit back. “Damn it, Max,” he hissed, as the dog howled a second time. “Bad dog. We’re trying to be quiet.”  
   
Sam grabbed at his jacket. “Dean,” he said, “look.”  
   
Giving up on the dog, Dean followed his gaze. Just on the other side of the ridge, the light from a nearly full moon lit up the sloping roof of what looked like an old ranch house, peeking out from between the pines. Dean blinked at it, then glanced down at the dog again, rubbing his chin. “I take that back,” he said. “Good boy.”  
   
“You think that's it?” Sam’s voice had already dropped to a whisper. He fumbled for his gun with his free hand, while Dean shrugged.  
   
“I think there’s a pretty good chance.” He patted Maximillian on the head, and then pointed towards the house. There was a light shining through one of the windows. “Looks like someone’s home, at least.”  
   
“Do you think we should leave the dog here?”  
   
“Do you think he’ll stay?”  
   
They both looked down at the dog, who tilted his head at them and whined.  
   
“What if we tie him up?”  
   
“What if he barks?” Sam countered.  
   
“Damn it.” Dean rubbed at his forehead for a moment, before wagging a finger in front of Maximillian’s face. “If you get hurt, Cas is going to tear me a new one,” he griped, “so no Lassie heroics.”  
   
Sam snorted.  
   
“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean said. He tugged on the hem of his jacket, cracked his neck, and checked for Ruby’s knife. He pulled it out, gripping it tightly in one hand. “C’mon, Max.”  
   
With the dog leading the way, they crept towards the house. Although neither Dean nor Sam could smell it, the tautness in Maximillian’s body, and the way he began to move faster and faster towards the front door, almost pulling Sam along, made it clear that whatever else was there, there had to be some demons. Dean stopped walking as his feet suddenly crunched on a gravel driveway. He fell back behind a white Civic, parked just next to where the copse of pine trees ended. As Sam crouched beside him, he heard Maximillian emit a low growl.  
   
“There’s a back door,” said Dean, jerking his head towards the other side of the house. “Did you see it?”  
   
“Yeah.” Sam pressed his lips together. “What are you thinking?”  
   
Absently, Dean caressed the hilt of Ruby’s knife. “No matter what, there’s demons here. Question is: is the kid here too?”  
   
“Only way one to find out,” said Sam.  
   
Nodding, Dean began to sketch in the sand with the knife tip. “I’ll knock,” he said. “You go in the back.”  
   
“Dean—” Sam began to protest, but Dean stopped him with a look.  
   
“If the kid’s here, we can’t let him get caught in the cross-fire. But I bet if he is here, they’re not keeping him tied up in the living room. Maybe in a basement or something. I don’t know. But,” he nodded to the dog, “you and the mutt go in the back while I distract them up front. See if you can find him.” He grinned, showing teeth. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he said, “I’ll leave some for you.”  
   
“I don’t like this idea.” Sam scratched at Maximillian’s ears, then unclipped his leash. “The dog’s not looking for the kid. And he’s not going to kill demons, either.”  
   
Dean sent Maximillian a considering glance. The dog was still growling in the direction of the house, his hackles raised. “Don’t be too sure. I don’t think he likes the bastards any more than we do.”  
   
“I don’t see why you can’t just go through a window,” Sam said, exasperated. Dean gave him a pointed look.  
   
“The house ain’t that big, Sammy. They’re going to notice, either way.”  
   
Sam grimaced. “Fine.”  
   
“You find the kid, you pray to Cas.” Dean began to stand. “I don’t even know where the hell we are, but I think he’s got tabs on the dog, so,” he shrugged, “he should be able to find us.”  
   
“Don't do anything stupid,” Sam said, getting to his feet as well. Dean rolled his eyes in response.  
   
“I’ll let you get a head start to the back.” Dean looked at Max. “Go on,” he said, feeling immeasurably gratified when the dog actually got up and began to slink after Sam, nose to the ground. Dean stretched, rotating his shoulders as he watched them go. A few more moments until Sam disappeared behind the shadows of a dilapidated fence, and Dean started towards the front.  
   
No matter how many demonic house parties they’d crashed over the years, it never failed to amaze Dean how the inhabitants reacted the same way every single time. First, there was the knock.  
   
Dean knocked.  
   
Then, the unsuspecting demon opened the door. This one was wearing what looked like a truck stop waitress, complete with the bottle-blonde eighties perm. Her blue skirt was frayed, and spattered with what could have been blood.  
   
There was that sweet, sweet moment of slow recognition, where human eyes turned black as coal. And of course, it was always a bit of an ego boost when it was accompanied by something like,  
   
“Winchester!”  
   
Then there was the messy part.  
   
“Evening,” said Dean, smiling with no humor. A quick scan of the living room revealed five demons and no kid. He hefted Ruby’s knife.  
   
Dean was so distracted, what with trying to either kill or exorcise the demons who had piled up into the room, that he didn’t even notice when Sam banged in through the back door. He did pay attention, however, when a long howl echoed through the hallway. Ever one to flash back to every horrible memory he had involving hellhounds, Dean felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Absurdly, he wished that they hadn’t left the stupid, hellhound x-ray specs wedged into the corner under the false trunk.  
   
He needn’t have worried however. As it turned out, it wasn’t hellhounds at all. It was Maximillian’s battle cry. Sam leapt into the fray scarcely a second later.  
   
“Did you find him?” Dean managed to ask, in between punching one demon in the face, and knifing his friend in the stomach.  
   
“Uh,” Sam panted. “Well…”  
   
“Well?” Dean demanded. “What the hell—” he elbowed the demon creeping up behind him, finishing off with a roundhouse kick that would’ve made Chuck Norris weep. “—What do you mean, _well_?”  
   
The last demon slumped to the ground. The room, covered in gore, was suddenly, very quiet. Dean wiped the knife on one of the bodies’ shirts, then stuck it back into his belt.  “Did you find him?” he repeated.  
   
Sam nodded, but he seemed hesitant. “There’s kind of, uh, another thing,” he said, jerking his head towards the hallway.  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
Sam exhaled, his mouth twisting as he made a helpless gesture. “He’s not alone,” he said.  
   
Dean blinked. “There’s another kid?” He frowned when Sam shook his head. “Then what?”  
   
“Uh,” Sam sighed. His shoulders sagged. “You got any salt?” he said finally.  
   
Dean stared at him, jaw working. “Are you serious?”  
   
Sam nodded, a little apologetically.  
   
“Fuck’s sake,” Dean huffed. He stalked towards the kitchen, kicking a body out of the way, tripping over an errant leg in the process. “It couldn’t have been simple, could it?”  
   
There was no salt in the kitchen—unsurprising, really, considering just what had been living there. Iron was also in short supply, though Dean did manage to find one fireplace poker, hidden in the closet. Thus armed, they made their way down the hall.  
   
Maximillian sat guarding the door. His head lifted when Sam and Dean approached, and he let out a small whine. When Dean reached to pat him absently, he noticed that there was blood on his muzzle.  
   
It was already cold by the door. When they eased it open, the air grew downright icy. Dean had time to notice a few things: a bed in the corner, a small child _sitting_ in that bed, and a lamp, before the door slammed shut on him.  
   
“Fuck,” Dean said, leaning against the doorjamb. “Well, that answers that question.”  
   
“She did that the last time, too.”  
   
“I hate ghosts.”  
   
“At least she hasn’t tried to kill us,” Sam offered.  
   
Dean scowled at him, scrubbing his face. “No, but she’s making this a lot more difficult than it needs to be.”  
   
“She doesn’t know we’re not demons.”  
   
“That’s not helpful.”  
   
“I’m just saying.”  
   
Expression tight, Dean inhaled. “Oh Castiel, Angel of the Lord,” he said. He frowned. “Kind of,” he added, while Sam looked incredulously at him. “You need to get your ass down here.” He pursed his lips. “Uh, not really sure about our exact location, but Max is here—”  
   
There was the sound of wings and a thump. They turned.  
   
“Did you find him?” Castiel strode forward, eyes and hair wild. “Is he here?”  
   
“Dude.” Dean reached out to stop him. “Chill. Yeah, he’s here. But there’s something else.”  
   
Castiel’s gaze flickered towards the door, then back to Dean. He straightened. “Tell me.”  
   
Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Sam was the one who finally broke the silence. “It’s Daphne, Cas,” he said, voice gentle, while Dean’s mouth tightened. “We think it’s her ghost. She’s guarding him.”  
   
Castiel let out a breath. His gaze lowered. “Oh,” he said softly. “I see.”  
   
“We don’t have any salt or anything.” Dean dared to slide a hand along Castiel’s stiff shoulder. Castiel looked at him. Dean licked his lips. “She won’t let us inside, and she won’t leave. I think you’re going to have to talk to her, Cas.”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said slowly. In the faint light of the hallway, his face looked lined. “Yes, I suppose I must.” He reached out and placed a hand on the doorknob. “Excuse me,” he said, and pushed.  
   
The door creaked open, letting out a trickle of cool air.  
   
Sam and Dean waited for it to slam shut again, but it stayed. They looked at Castiel, who was trying, and failing, to straighten his tie. With a sigh, Dean reached out and did it for him. Their eyes met, then Castiel looked away. He stuck out a foot and eased into the room, shutting the door behind him.  
   
Abandoned in the hallway, Sam and Dean leaned against the wall. Inside, they could hear Castiel’s low murmur, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Dean scuffed his boots against the floor.  
   
“What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” said Sam.  
   
Dean shook his head, but said nothing.  
   
They waited.  
   
About ten minutes in, just as Dean was starting to get antsy about the idea of Crowley coming back and finding his house ransacked, a soft, white light began to glow underneath the door. As it faded, Dean straightened. The door swung open.  
   
Castiel stood in the doorway, the lines around his mouth tense, deep shadows under his eyes. He cradled a small boy at his hip. The child had his face hidden in Castiel’s shoulder, but Dean could see that he already had Jimmy’s hair.  
   
“Sam, Dean,” Castiel said. “This is,” he hesitated, looking down at the small head of tussled brown hair, then back up at the Winchesters, as if he wasn’t quite up to realizing what—or rather _who_ —he was holding. His grip tightened. “This is Isaiah.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
Isaiah didn’t talk much. In fact, Dean mused, watching Castiel watch his son sleep on one of the motel beds, he hadn’t said a word in the entire two hours he’d been with them. No crying, no talking, just—silence.  
   
It was downright unnerving.  
   
“Here,” Sam said quietly. He turned his laptop around. “Isaiah Allen. Put into foster care three months ago after his mom’s car got hit by a drunk driver. Daphne died on impact. No listed family. Including,” he looked at Castiel, “no father.”  
   
“Jesus,” said Dean. He drew his hand across his mouth.  
   
Castiel’s voice was low. “That matches what with Daphne’s ghost told me,” he said. “Isaiah’s heritage would have protected him from major harm.” His gaze flickered away, back towards the kid. “Physical harm,” he amended.  
   
“Says here there wasn’t a scratch on him,” Sam reported. He continued reading. His face paled. “Oh, fuck.”  
   
Dean swiveled around. “What?”  
   
“Kid’s got an Amber Alert on him.” Sam bit his lip. “Disappeared from his foster home more than a month ago.”  
   
Dean closed his eyes. “Fuck,” he said feelingly.  
   
“I don’t understand,” Castiel said. His hand hovered just above Isaiah’s head, but didn’t touch. “What is an Amber Alert?”  
   
As Sam began to explain, Dean patted around the bed for his phone. Castiel’s face grew stonier.  
   
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “I am his father. He has no need to be in this…foster care any more. He is not safe there.”  
   
“That’s not how it works, Cas.” Sam moved his laptop aside. “You’re not on the birth certificate. They find him, they’re going to think that _we’re_ the ones who kidnapped him.”  
   
“They won’t find him,” Castiel said strongly.  
   
“Yeah, maybe not next week, but he’s gonna have to start school and stuff sometime.” Dean began to flip through his contacts. “You can’t take him up to Heaven, so you’re stuck down here. Who knows—someone might recognize him on a milk carton twelve years from now.”  
   
“I don’t think they do those any more, Dean.”  
   
“Milk carton?” Castiel’s expression grew even more pinched.  
   
“Whatever, the point still stands.” Dean finally found the number he was looking for. He pressed call, and put the phone to his ear.  
   
Sam leaned forward. “Who are you calling?”  
   
“Jody.”  
   
“Oh.” Sam made a thoughtful noise. He reached for his laptop again. “That’s actually a good idea.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said urgently.  
   
“Yeah, don’t worry, Cas. I’m not going to tell Claire.” He shifted the phone to his right ear. “I’ll leave that fun task up to you—hey, Jody!” He settled back against the headboard. “Yeah, I’ve had kind of a funny day. How’re you?” His face grew into a small smile as Jody responded. He waited for a few moments, then said, “Listen, Jody, we’ve kind of got a situation down here we could use your help with.” A pause. “No, not really a hunt. Kind of a—legal thing. _No,_ I’m not in jail, why would you think that?” He blinked as he heard tinny laughter through the phone. “Okay, fair,” he admitted.  
   
“Dean,” Sam said quietly. Dean held up his hand.  
   
“Could you hold on a sec? Sam’s trying to say something. Sorry.” He covered the receiver. “What?”  
   
Sam pointed at the computer. “The ‘last seen with’ lists a possible white Civic,” he said.  
   
“Okay.” Dean scratched his forehead. “So?”  
   
Sam gave him a look. “That’s the car the demons had parked outside the house,” he said, impatient.  
   
“Oh.” Dean grinned. “You mean the one we stole?”  
   
“Yes, Dean.” Sam exhaled. “What I’m trying to say is, if we can get the kid and the car to Jody…”  
   
“Ah,” said Dean. He uncovered the phone. “Listen, Jody. Crowley was holding on to a kid, who—yeah, the kid’s safe, but—no, that’s not—okay, but would you—”  
   
Castiel held out his hand. “Give me the phone,” he said.  
   
 _Are you sure_? Dean mouthed, eyebrows raised. When Castiel’s hand didn’t waver, he said, “You know what, Jody? I’m just going to hand over the phone to Cas here for a—yes, he’s back, he showed up yesterd—you know what? Here he is.” He shoved the phone at Castiel, who took it, holding it against his ear.  
   
“Jody,” he said. “It’s Castiel.” He paused. “Yes, I am well.” He waited for another moment, then said, breath hissing out between his teeth, “What I am about to tell you, I would appreciate if you did not relate to Claire. I would like the opportunity to inform her myself.” A moment. “No, not right now. The situation is far too delicate at the moment.”  
   
“Christ, Cas, you going to gossip or you going to explain?”  
   
Castiel ignored him. He took in a breath. “The child Crowley had kidnapped is mine,” he said.  
   
Dean winced as Castiel suddenly held the phone away from his ear. Even at a distance, he could hear Jody’s voice through the receiver. When it faded, Castiel cautiously put the phone back.  
   
“The situation is very complicated.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “When this is resolved, I promise I will explain more fully, but suffice to say, I am the only family he has left now.” He fell silent, clearly listening to Jody say something, then handed the phone out to Dean. “She wishes to speak to you.”  
   
Dean made a face. “Hello, Jody,” he said, voice careful.  
   
“Dean Winchester, if this is a joke, I’m going to kick your sorry ass from here to Texas.”  
   
“Jody, I swear to god,” Dean said, shaking his head, “this is not a joke.”  
   
There was silence on the other line. “The kid’s okay?” said Jody finally.  
   
“Uh.” Dean snuck a peek back over. “I mean, he’s probably traumatized for life, but he’s sleeping right now.”  
   
“How old?”  
   
“About four.”  
   
Dean could hear Jody sigh. “Okay,” she said. “What do you boys need?”  
   
   
#  
   
   
“Dean,” Castiel said, as he battled his tie again, “are you sure this is going to work?”  
   
“Sure it is.” Dean rolled his eyes and got to his feet, unable to watch Castiel butcher the half windsor any more than he already had. His fingers flicked through the motions automatically as he spoke. “Look, you’ve got Jimmy’s I.D, his face, and his DNA. Even if the kid’s got a little angel in him, he’s still biologically Jimmy’s. Daphne didn’t put you on the birth certificate, so what? You were kind of a jerk to her. It wasn’t like you were around to protest.”  
   
“I was helping you kill demons.” A beat. “And defeat the Leviathan.”  
   
“Yeah, remember not to tell that part to child services,” Dean advised, patting him on the shoulder. He stepped back, admiring his handiwork, while Castiel stood stiffly. “Looking good,” he said. “You’ll knock them out of the park.”  
   
“I understand the idiom, but it makes little sense in this context—” Castiel began, but was interrupted by Sam barging in through the door, accompanied by Jody and another woman in a suit.  
   
“Oh, I know,” Sam was saying. “It’s such an insane coincidence. I mean, it’s crazy enough that we found the kid left alone in the car, but when Jody looked him up and realized that his mom was Jimmy’s ex? Man.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Makes you think there really is a god.” He smiled, charming to the very tips of his toes.  
   
Jody, of course, was less than impressed, having seen the whole song and dance before, but the social worker practically had hearts in her eyes.  
   
“Of course,” she said a little breathily, laying her hand on Sam’s arm. “We do still have to do that blood test. And all the paperwork. Making sure Mr. Novak,” (Castiel gave an awkward wave), “is a fit father.”  
   
Castiel opened his mouth, and Dean promptly stepped on his foot. Castiel’s head swung towards him instead. “Why did you do that?”  
   
Dean shook his head, managing a tight grin as the social worker came up to them. “Hello, Laura,” he greeted. “It’s so nice to see you again.”  
   
“Likewise, Dean,” she replied warmly, shaking his hand. “And Jimmy.” She turned to Castiel. “It’s nice to see you again as well.”  
   
“I—” Castiel said. “Thank you.” He shook her hand.  
   
“I look forward to settling Isaiah’s case,” she said. “You got the information we sent you? About the hearing?”  
   
“I—yes.” Castiel looked to Dean.  
   
“We’ll be in Denver on Friday,” Dean said.  
   
“Good, good.” Laura seemed relieved. She opened the folder she carried, and flipped through the file. “You’ve already ordered the paternity test.”  
   
“I—”  
   
“Yes,” Dean said, smooth as silk. He shuffled closer to Castiel, placed a hand on his wrist. “Yesterday. Express. Should get there before Friday.”  
   
“Excellent.” Laura huffed out a breath. “I’m so glad we found Isaiah, don’t get me wrong, but I wasn’t expecting to have to travel up to South Dakota this week.” Her smile looked a little strained. “It’ll be easier when we’re all back in Colorado and can meet with the judge there.” She swiped a hand through her hair. “I just have a few more questions for you. We’ll rehash it all for the court, of course, but I like to get these things down.”  
   
“Of course,” said Castiel.  
   
“Right. Sam tells me you’re employed with him?”  
   
A pause as Castiel hesitated. Dean leaned into him. “Yes,” Castiel said. “Yes. I am—I am employed with Sam.”  
   
“And what is it you, uh, do?”  
   
“I am a blogger,” Castiel said, as rigid as if it had been rehearsed—which, of course, it had been. “It allows me to work remotely, and to travel.”  
   
Laura looked up over her glasses. “You travel frequently?”  
   
“That was before.” Castiel shifted from foot to foot. “Sam understands that my situation is different now, and has assured me that my job will not be affected.”  
   
Laura looked over at Sam for confirmation. He nodded. “Wonderful,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind—he already told me your salary.”  
   
“Not at all,” said Castiel. (They hadn’t actually discussed salary).  
   
“Married?”  
   
“Divorced.” (Sam had actually looked that one up).  
   
“All right.” She marked it down. “And my records show that you live near Lebanon, Kansas. Is that correct?”  
   
“Yes, that is correct.”  
   
Laura pursed her lips. “Do you live alone?”  
   
“Um.” Castiel coughed. “No. Dean is my—Dean is my roommate.”  
   
At that answer, Sam’s eyes bulged a little, but he kept an otherwise straight face. No one else seemed to notice anything.  
   
Laura hesitated for a moment, then just said, “Oh, I see.” And wrote something down. She began to close the file, then paused. “Oh, one more thing, Jimmy.”  
   
Castiel tilted his head. “Yes?”  
   
“I understand you have a daughter? From a previous…” she consulted the paperwork, “…marriage?”  
   
Castiel stiffened, his face paling. “Claire. Yes, that is correct.”  
   
“I see.” The folder shut. “And Claire resides here with Jody, does she not?”  
   
Jody came forward. “She does.”  
   
Laura looked back and forth between Jody to Castiel. “It must be a very complicated story.”  
   
Castiel inhaled. “Claire and I,” he said delicately, “are in the process of repairing our relationship, um, post-divorce. I also…reside…in a fairly, ah, remote, location and, ah, travel frequently, and…”  
   
“What Jimmy’s trying to explain,” Sam cut in, shooting Castiel a warning glance, “is that they decided as a family that it would be better for Claire to live here with Jody for the time being. Where she could get a fresh start. Be with other kids her age.”  
   
While Sam talked, Laura’s eyebrows rose higher and higher. She turned to Jody. “I’ve got to ask, how did that happen?”  
   
“Jody is an old family friend,” said Dean, now sporting more of a grimace than a smile. “We knew she would be the best choice to look after Claire.”  
   
“It’s a joy,” said Jody. “Really.”  
   
Laura’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see,” she said. She gestured to Sam and Dean. “So, you two knew Jody, and then because Jimmy and Dean…” she trailed off, nodding satisfactorily to herself. “All right. Now I see.”  
   
“Wait, what?” said Dean.  
   
“Because…me and Dean,” Castiel echoed, squinting in a way that meant he understood precisely none of what was being said.  
   
“Yes.” Laura smiled. “Don’t worry,” she added hastily, completely misinterpreting Dean’s very constipated expression. “It shouldn’t be a problem. Not in Denver. Might actually make you look more family oriented, which is nothing but a bonus.”  
   
Dean shut his mouth.  
   
“Well, I’ve got to get going,” Laura said, checking her watch. “I need to get a few more errands out of the way, and then we have a plane to catch.” She began to re-button her coat. “I can’t believe it’s still so darn cold here. In April!”  
   
“That’s the Great White North for you,” said Jody, with absolutely no inflection in her voice.  
   
Castiel turned to Dean. “Jody is aware we’re not in Canada?”  
   
“It was a joke, Cas,” Dean said out of the corner of his mouth. Castiel blinked in slow understanding.  
   
“I see.” He raised a hesitant hand. “Goodbye, Laura.”  
   
Dean attempted a smile. “See you in Denver.”  
   
“Well, boys,” Jody said, turning back to them as soon as Laura was out the door and out of sight, “you’ve got a week to convince the judge that Castiel is a law abiding citizen.” She snorted. “Good luck.”  
   
Castiel was already making for the door himself. “Is Isaiah still in your office?”  
   
Standing in front of the doorway, Jody crossed her arms. “Yes, he’s fine. He’s still in my office, coloring. I’ve got my deputy watching him.”  
   
“I would just like to make sure—”  
   
“Cas, the kid’s fine.” Dean put out a hand to keep him in place. “The building is warded up tight, and he’s got Enochian all over his innards to keep anyone else from finding him.”  
   
“I just…”  
   
“Look, I get it man.” Dean squeezed his shoulder. “But if you want to do that invisible ninja angel trick and travel with them on the plane, you’re going to have to talk to us now, when we still have the time for it. That was the deal.”  
   
Castiel bit his lip. “Very well,” he muttered.  
   
“Okay, first off,” Jody said, before Dean could open his mouth again. “You have got to tell Claire. I’m not going to be able to keep this from her.”  
   
Castiel cringed a little. Dean gave him a pat on the back. “Rip it off like a band-aid,” he said. “She’s going to be mad either way.”  
   
“That is not helpful,” Castiel told him.  
   
“Okay, and second,” Sam said, spinning around in his chair, “now you’ve somehow got the social worker thinking you’re, like, boyfriends or whatever. So you’re going to have to work with that, too.”  
   
“What? No.” Dean made a face. “No, she doesn’t.”  
   
“Dude.” Sam gave him a significant look. “Cas said you were his _roommate_.”  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I am his roommate!”  
   
“His family-oriented roommate?” Sam asked pointedly.  
   
Dean huffed, then scowled at Sam. “That’s not what she meant.”  
   
“Yeah, okay,” said Jody, coming between them. She turned to Dean. “Dean, it’s fine. You can pretend to be Castiel’s cabana boy for a week. No one’s going to care. You might even make him look better.” She looked Castiel up and down. “Lord knows he’s going to need it.”  
   
“I am not going to be Castiel’s cabana boy!” Dean barked. He nodded to Castiel. “No offense, Cas.”  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “None taken.”  
   
Dean crossed his arms. “So there.”  
   
Sam’s nostril’s flared. “Really, Dean?” he said. “Is this some kind of macho thing?”  
   
“What?” Dean’s voice rose. “No!”  
   
“So you’re not too much of a manly man to mind being Cas’ fake boyfriend in order to make him look like a reliable and stable human being for a judge so that he can secure custody of his only child?”  
   
“That isn’t what I’m saying, Sam.” Dean pointed a finger at him. “Don’t twist my words.”  
   
“So, you don’t mind.”  
   
“Fuck, Sam.” He cast a glance over at Castiel. “You ever consider maybe Cas doesn’t want to be _my_ fake boyfriend?”  
   
“I don’t mind,” Castiel said quietly.  
   
“Goddammit, Cas,” said Dean, covering his face with his hand. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”  
   
“Great,” Sam said smugly. “Now, how did you two lovebirds meet?”  
   
“I’m going to have to murder you,” Dean said.  
   
“Technically, we met for the first time when I pulled him from Hell,” Cas piped up.  
   
Dean made a derisive noise in his throat. Sam wrinkled his nose. “Don’t tell the social worker that, okay?”  
   
“Just say we met through work,” Dean said, now rubbing his temples.  
   
Castiel shrugged. “Very well.”  
   
“And you live together on some family land outside of Lebanon.” Sam already had his computer out and was typing. “Sound good?”  
   
“None of this sounds good.”  
   
“Great. Dean, do you want to be a house husband or a mechanic?”  
   
As Dean sputtered, Jody drew Castiel aside. “Claire should be home soon.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “I won’t be able to hide this from her by the time I get home in a few hours.”  
   
“Are you sure?”  
   
Jody gave him a look. Castiel hung his head. “I understand,” he said. “I will try and explain the…the situation.”  
   
“She’s going to be angry with you.”  
   
“So I assumed.”  
   
“She has a right to be, so don’t give up on her even if it doesn’t go well this time.”  
   
Castiel pressed his lips together. “I will try my best.” He turned back to Sam and Dean, and nudged Dean’s elbow. “Dean.”  
   
“Yeah, Cas?”  
   
“You should call him ‘Dear,’ or ‘Babe’,” Sam advised. “More realism.”  
   
Without looking away from Castiel, Dean punched Sam in the arm. “Yes, _Cas_?” he repeated. “What is it?”  
   
Castiel set his shoulders. “I am going to go speak to Claire.”  
   
“Oh.” Dean scratched the back of neck. “Uh, you really sure that's a good idea right now?” He looked to Jody.  
   
“That girl’s got resources, Dean,” Jody said, pulling on her jacket. “She’s going to find out soon.” She jerked her head towards Castiel. “It’ll be better if it comes from him directly.”  
   
“I would like to speak to her now,” Castiel said, hands clasped behind his back, “so that I am able to accompany Laura and Isaiah during their return trip to Denver.”  
   
“Cas, isn’t it going to be weird for the kid that he’s the only one who’ll be able to see you?”  
   
“He won’t be able to see me. His grace is not developed enough for that.” Castiel tilted his head. “He might be able to sense me, however.” He looked pensive for a moment. “Perhaps it will bring him comfort.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean sighed. “Whatever you want, man. It’s your kid.”  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “Jody,” he said. “I wish to speak to Isaiah before I leave.”  
   
Jody considered him, then nodded. “All right.” She pulled at the door. “He’s this way.”  
   
“See you in Denver, Cas,” Sam said, putting his computer away.  
   
Dean pursed his lips. “Yeah, see you.”  
   
With Jody leading the way, Castiel ducked out of the room. Jody took him down the hallway towards her office, their shoes clicking on the linoleum flooring. “In here,” she said, pushing on her own office door. Castiel followed her in, taking a few seconds to make sure that none of the wards he’d carved around the doorway had been disturbed.  
   
Isaiah was sitting at Jody’s desk, short legs swinging as he drew with an oversized green crayon. He was dressed in the red sweatshirt and jeans that they had bought for him only that morning. Castiel halted in the doorway for a moment. Jody’s deputy sat in another chair, working on a laptop. He nodded as Jody came in.  
   
“Sheriff,” he said. “Mr. Novak.”  
   
“You’re fine,” Jody said, as he started to rise. “Mr. Novak here just wanted a chance to speak to Isaiah before he goes back to Denver.”  
   
As Jody spoke, Castiel had moved towards Isaiah’s chair. “Isaiah,” he said.  
   
Isaiah didn’t look up. In fact, to any other observer, he barely appeared to have moved at all. But Castiel wasn’t any other observer. He watched the small flicker of Isaiah’s grace flare, then grow still again.  
   
“Isaiah, I am going to go to speak to someone.” Castiel licked dry lips. “I will see you again in Denver in a few days.”  
   
Though he still didn’t look up from his drawing, Isaiah shook his head. Castiel knelt down.  
   
“I will,” he insisted. “But in the interim, Jody and Laura will…take good care of you.” He didn’t dare to touch Isaiah’s shoulder, so he kept his hands clenched at his sides. “Remember,” he said, standing and gathering his coat to him, “I will always watch over you. I will not forsake you.”  
   
Slowly, Isaiah glanced up. His eyes were Jimmy’s blue, but they had Castiel’s spark. Their gazes met for a brief moment, before Isaiah returned to his drawing.  
   
Castiel let out a breath. “All right,” he said to Jody. “Is Claire is home now?”  
   
“She should be.” Jody’s expression darkened for a moment. “Unless she’s been playing hooky again,” she muttered. She reached into her pocket for her cell phone. “Let me text her.” She set to work. A minute later, her phone buzzed. Jody checked it. “She says she’s home,” she reported.  
   
“Very well.” Castiel exhaled. “Can you let her know to expect me?”  
   
“What, you can’t tell her yourself?”  
   
“Please.”  
   
Jody snorted. “Fine.”  
   
Nodding his thanks, Castiel made for the door again. “Jody,” he said, stopping in the entranceway. “I…apologize, if she is not in a good mood when you come home tonight.”  
   
“Yeah, well.” Jody managed a terse smile. “Teenagers. When are they ever?”  
   
With a dip of the head, Castiel left.  
   
“Interesting guy,” the deputy commented.  
   
Jody let out a breath. “You have no idea.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean liked Denver, he really did. There was good food, good beer, the motels weren’t too shady, and people were generally friendly. Sometimes though, he thought, they could be a little full of themselves.  
   
Case in point:  
   
“Look,” Dean said, trying not to grind his teeth too obviously. “I do like it here, I really do. But—” he snaked a hand around Castiel’s shoulder, trying to draw him closer, “C— _Jimmy_ and I, are settled in Kansas. And so that’s why we’re going back there. With the kid.”  
   
“The taxes are lower in Kansas,” Castiel said, very blandly. Dean rotated to look at him, and then back to the lawyer.  
   
“The taxes are lower,” he agreed.  
   
“We have a house.”  
   
Dean closed his eyes. “We have a house.”  
   
After some more back and forth, and little bit of handwringing about “what nice school districts we have in Colorado,” (“He’s not even in kindergarten,” said Dean). And how, “A couple such as yourselves might have an…easier time of it here.” (“Excuse, me?” said Dean, this time much more loudly), the lawyer began to walk them through the paperwork involved for moving states so soon after gaining custody.  
   
“And that’s a wrap,” Dean said, when the last thing had been signed. He stretched and cracked his back, turning to Castiel. “Ready?”  
   
“Ready.”  
   
Dean spun on his heel to look at Isaiah, sitting quietly in the corner. “Ready, kid?”  
   
Isaiah didn’t answer, but his eyes did lift up from the ground to meet Dean’s. They dropped back down after another moment.  
   
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dean said, trying not to give away just how unnerving it was to spend time with a four-year-old who never talked. He got it. The kid had shit to work through. That was fair. He turned to Laura, who was standing next to the lawyer. “Uh, does he, like, have anything? A suitcase?”  
   
She blinked at him. “Oh my goodness, you’re absolutely right. It’s in my office, I believe. I’ll go and get it.” She made for the door, while the lawyer finished gathering her papers and snapping her briefcase shut.  
   
“Well, gentlemen,” she said, shaking first Dean’s hand, then Castiel’s. “I’m pleased it all worked out.” She gripped Castiel’s hand extra-firmly. “Take care of that kid.”  
   
“I intend to,” Castiel replied very seriously. In response, she gave him a long look up and down.  
   
“I hope so,” she said finally. Her eyes slid to Isaiah, still sitting quietly, though he’d started to kick his legs a little. “He’s going to need a lot of care.”  
   
Laura came back with the bags. One was a backpack with what looked like some cartoon characters that Dean didn’t recognize, and one a miniature, rolling suitcase. “These are his,” she said.  
   
“That’s it?” Dean hefted them experimentally in one hand. They were pretty light for all of someone’s worldly possessions.  
   
“The estate was sold, but he won’t be able to access the money until he’s eighteen,” she reminded him.  
   
“Right,” Dean muttered. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “We’re going to need to go shopping,” he said, mostly to himself.  
   
“Are you planning to leave today?”  
   
“Nah.” Dean put the bags down. “Five, six hours isn’t too long a drive for us, but it’ll be harder on him.” He jerked his head towards Isaiah, who was solemnly handing a piece of paper over to Castiel. “We’ll leave in the morning.”  
   
There had been some talk about Castiel just zapping them all over there, but it was Castiel, of all people, who had vetoed it. “His health is fragile,” he had said. “I do not want to jeopardize it further.” And that was that.  
   
The cell phone in his pocket buzzed. Dean took it out, read the text, then put it back again. He swung the little cartoon backpack up over his shoulder. “C—Jimmy,” he said. “Sam’s got the car outside.”  
   
“All right.” Castiel rose from his kneeling position next to Isaiah. He offered his hand to him. Isaiah regarded it for a moment, then took it. “Thank you, Laura,” he said, as they turned towards the door.  
   
“My pleasure.” Laura gave them a wave. “If you need me, don’t hesitate to call. Do you still have my business card?”  
   
Castiel looked at Dean.  
   
“Yes,” said Dean. He pointed towards his pocket. “Safe and sound.”  
   
“Well,” Laura said, “don’t be afraid to use it if you need it.”  
   
“Yeah, okay.” Dean managed a friendly grimace. He took another step towards the door.  
   
“Goodbye, Jimmy. Goodbye, Isaiah.”  
   
“Goodbye,” Castiel said. He looked down at his son. Isaiah, of course, didn’t say anything, but he did give a small wave with the hand that wasn’t currently holding onto Castiel.  
   
And with that, they finally made their way out of the door.  
   
Sam was waiting for them out front of the courthouse, parked just to the side of a no-parking zone. He opened the trunk as the other three came down the steps. “What took you guys so long?”  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t even ask,” he said, tossing Isaiah’s bags into the trunk. Sam threw him the keys. He caught them one-handed and rounded on the driver’s side. “Cas? You guys buckled in?”  
   
Castiel’s voice, when he replied, was muffled.  
   
“What?”  
   
“I said,” Castiel popped his head out of the car, hair mussed, “the seatbelt doesn’t fit him properly.”  
   
“We should’ve gotten a car seat,” said Sam. Dean shot him a look.  
   
“We don’t need a freaking car seat.” He turned to Castiel. “Just mojo it.”  
   
“No,” said Castiel, lips pursed. “Not a full car seat. A booster seat, maybe.”  
   
“Jesus Christ, Cas, he’s not going to need a car seat because even if we did get in a crash—which we won’t, he’s got _you_ for a daddy!”  
   
Castiel glared at him. “Dean,” he said, voice frosty, “it’s not safe for him to ride with an improperly fitting seatbelt. I read all about it.”  
   
Dean threw up his hands. “Fine,” he bit out. “We’ll go buy a car seat.”  
   
“Booster seat.”  
   
“Whatever.”  
   
“Thank you, Dean.”  
   
Only the presence of a minor kept Dean from smashing his head against the steering wheel.

  
   
#

  
After a quick trip into the nearest Walmart to pick up Castiel’s premier booster seat, which Dean paid for using a stolen credit card, mostly out of spite, they ended the afternoon at a pizza joint not too far from their hotel.  
   
Isaiah was far more interested in the crayons and paper offered by the establishment, and only picked at his slice, even though Sam had had the foresight to order some plain cheese. Castiel twitched in concern.  
   
“Do you think he’s feeling all right?” he murmured in Dean’s ear, hands fluttering. Dean gave him a jaundiced look.  
   
“Cas, he’s fine. Sometimes kids are just picky.” Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin. “We’ll bring home the leftovers. If he’s hungry later he can have them.”  
   
Castiel frowned. “Maybe we should order something else for him. What else do they have on the children’s menu?”  
   
“Cas, no.” Dean caught Castiel’s hand before it went up to signal the waitress. “He’s got a nice piece of cheese pizza—if he doesn’t want to eat it, then he doesn’t have to eat it, but we’re not going to order something else.” In the back of his mind, part of Dean knew that he sounded like his dad _(“This is all we’ve got. You don’t want it, go hungry.”)_ , and that that was probably not the best source of guidance for raising a kid. On the other hand, if Castiel kept up with this shit, they were going to have one very spoiled, silent, four-year-old on their hands.  
   
“I don’t want him to be hungry,” Castiel hissed. “Who knows how often Crowley fed him. I am responsible—”  
   
“Sam,” Dean said, catching Castiel by the elbow and hauling him out of the booth, “I need to talk to Cas for a second. Could you hold down the fort?”  
   
“Yeah, okay,” said Sam, who’d been watching their back-and-forth with poorly concealed amusement. He cast a glance at Isaiah, who was now delicately ripping off the crust of his pizza. “I think we’ll be fine.”  
   
Dean gave a short nod, and dragged Castiel out towards the bathrooms. He stopped just in front of the water fountain.  
   
“Dude,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the wall, “you need to find your chill.”  
   
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Castiel was already craning his neck, trying to keep their table in his line of sight. Dean pulled him back around.  
   
“You need to stop acting like this.”  
   
Castiel glared. “Like what? Be specific, Dean.”  
   
“You know what I’m talking about.”  
   
 “You requested that I don’t read your mind, Dean.” Castiel narrowed his eyes even further. “Speak plainly.”  
   
Dean clenched his jaw, but didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m talking about how you’re suddenly trying to be like a—I don’t know, freaking helicopter parent or something.”  
   
“I’m not helicoptering anything.” Castiel scowled.  
   
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. I get that you’ve been doing this for like, less than a week. I get that you want him to be safe. But acting like the whole world’s out to get him isn’t going to help—”  
   
“The whole world _is_ out to get him!” Castiel snapped back. “And it’s not just that I want him to be safe.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, face scrunched. “He needs to be healthy, and, and—joyful, like children are and it’s my fault, Dean. It’s my fault that he isn’t.”  
   
“Cas…”  
   
Castiel’s voice dropped. He kneaded his temples. “From the moment I saw his grace, all I’ve wanted to do is protect him.” He swallowed. “It’s too much, Dean,” he said. “It’s too much. I’m feeling too much and I don’t know what to do—”  
   
Dean gave in and reached out to grip Castiel’s shoulder. “We’ll help,” he said. “We’ll help you figure it out. But you’ve got to chill out and stop acting like a nutty soccer mom.”  
   
“I can’t ask that of you.” Castiel stared at the ground. “This is dangerous, Dean. If Heaven ever learns of Isaiah’s existence, we will all be severely punished.”  
   
“Tough shit,” Dean huffed. “I’m not giving you a choice. Like hell I’m going to let you try and raise a kid on your own. He’s half human, too. And he’s gotta blend in here, right?”  
   
“I suppose.”  
   
“Well, he’s definitely not going to learn that from you,” Dean told him. “I might be his only hope. Besides,” he shrugged, “it’s not like me and Sam haven’t told Heaven where to stick it, like, a million times before.” He let out a crooked grin.  
   
Castiel raised his head and their eyes met. He placed his hand over top of the one Dean had on his shoulder, and squeezed. “Thank you, Dean,” he said. He smiled that self-deprecating smile, the one that let Dean know that Feelings were on their way to being discussed. “I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t here.”  
   
Dean coughed. “It’s really no big deal,” he said, a little uncomfortably, his brain just now starting to catch up with his mouth. Had he just agreed to help Castiel _raise a child?_ No, Dean thought, dragging himself from the precipice of Oh Shit What Did I Do. Cas knew what he meant. He was strictly in Bobby “Honorary Uncle” Singer territory, here.  
   
Castiel’s hand was warm. When he let go, Dean remembered that he, also, had to let go. He dropped his arm. “Really.”  
   
“It is a big deal,” Castiel insisted. “I would,” his eyes slid away, then back, “I fear you’re right. I would not be very good at doing this by myself.”  
   
“He’ll still need you to teach him angel things,” Dean told him.  
   
“Yes.” Castiel’s brow creased in thought. “I’m not actually sure what he’ll be capable of. Nephilim aren’t exactly common. There is little record.”  
   
“It shouldn’t be too different from raising any other kind of kid,” Dean reasoned. “As long as we can keep him from accidentally killing himself, it should be okay, right?”  
   
Castel shot him an unamused look. Dean snickered.  
   
“It’s not like Sam and I didn’t do any stupid stuff.”  
   
“Isaiah will not be leaping from any rooftops,” Castiel said severely.  
   
Dean opened his mouth, then shut it. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” He pointed a finger at Castiel. “But even without the rooftop thing—you’ve got to stop treating him like glass, okay? I know he’s been through a lot—and I mean, a _lot_ , of shit. But take it from me: kids are resilient. You won’t do him any favors by hovering.”  
   
Castiel pressed his lips together. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Fine,” Castiel said, after a moment. “I will do my best.”  
   
If Dean hadn’t been feeling a bit weird about the hand thing a few minutes ago, he would have looped a companionable arm around Castiel’s shoulders as they made their way back to the booth.  As it was, as soon as the booth was in sight, Dean stopped, nudging Castiel in the side.  
   
“See that?”  
   
“See what?” Castiel took a few more steps.  
   
Dean pulled him back. “Look.” He pointed at Isaiah’s plate. “Kid ate his pizza.”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel blinked. “So he did.”  
   
“I told you so,” Dean said, not at all smugly.  
   
“That’s not—”  
   
“And we’re back.” Dean slid back into the booth, the plastic covering squeaking a little as he shifted over to make room for Castiel. “Miss me, Sammy?” Dean batted his eyes.  
   
“Not really,” said Sam. He absently handed Isaiah a red crayon. “We’ve been coloring the placemat.”  
   
Castiel perked up. “Oh?” He stretched to see. To Dean, who was looking at it upside-down, it mostly looked like stick figures with scribbles. Still, Cas seemed fairly pleased. He gave Isaiah one of his rare, full-on gummy smiles. “Is this us?”  
   
Isaiah nodded.  
   
All right, Dean admitted, that was a little cute.  
   
“I like it,” Castiel declared. “It can go on the refrigerator in the bunker.”  
   
“I’ll add magnets to the grocery list,” Dean said, mouth half-full with lukewarm pizza. He swallowed, wiping loose cheese from his chin with the napkin. “We can go through his suitcase tonight too. See if he needs more clothes and stuff. They probably have better stores here than in Lebanon. Does that sound good to you?” he directed his last sentence at Isaiah. Not really expecting an answer (and of course not getting one) he slurped the last of his soda and pulled out his wallet. “Cool.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
On the scale of Ritz-Carleton to Roach, the hotel they were spending their last night in was actually a fair sight nicer than their usual. Dean was already thinking of ways to bribe Sam into taking the kid down to the pool, while he and Castiel went through the kid’s suitcase and tried to figure out if they needed to buy anything. Dean knew from experience that kids were possessive little monsters, and he didn’t want to freak Isaiah out even more by making him watch while they pawed through his belongings.  
   
That plan came to a very unceremonious halt when it became apparent that not only did Isaiah not own a swimsuit but, when Dean suggested he just wear a pair of shorts (“They’re not going to care, Sam. They probably won’t even notice.”), it became abundantly clear that Isaiah had absolutely no intention of going anywhere. It wasn’t like he threw a tantrum or anything, no. It was more like, at the very suggestion of leaving the room, he sat down on the rollaway cot, crossed his arms, and refused to budge.  
   
“Yep,” Dean said to Castiel, recognizing that particular pout, “he’s definitely yours.”  
   
Except for the downward twitch of his mouth, Castiel ignored him. “Isaiah,” he said, sitting on the cot. “Are you absolutely sure you wouldn’t enjoy swimming?”  
   
Isaiah turned his face away.  
   
“Sam would really like to take you,” Castiel said earnestly while, outside of Isaiah’s line of sight, Sam made a decidedly rude gesture. “He’s very sad that you don't want to go with him.”  
   
At that, Isaiah blinked once, twice, drew his knees up to his chest, and broke down in tears.  
   
Castiel immediately froze. “What—?” he said, stricken. “Isaiah, what—what’s _wrong_? Why are you—” He turned around. “Dean?”  
   
Dean paused in the motion of unzipping his duffle. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he said, coming towards them while Sam made like a statue next to the door. “What did you say?”  
   
“I just…” Castiel made a helpless gesture. “He doesn’t want to go swimming.”  
   
“Yeah, I can see that, genius.” In front of the cot, Dean hesitated a moment, then, throwing caution to the winds, plucked Isaiah up under the armpits, and settled him on his hip. Isaiah proceeded to wrap his skinny little arms around Dean’s neck, and sob into his shoulder. Dean patted him awkwardly on the back.  
   
Castiel stood up. “I don’t…” he said, now looking like _he_ was going to start crying too.  
   
To head that off at the pass, Dean shook his head. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “He’s probably just tired, man.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“Trust me.” Dean jerked his head towards Sam. “That one had a freakin’ meltdown if he didn’t get his nap until he was like, seven.”  
   
“I did not,” Sam protested.  
   
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean headed over to his bed, child in tow, and sat down. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “You don’t want to go swimming?”  
   
Isaiah shook his head in a vehement no against Dean’s shoulder, smearing snot and tears all over it.  
   
“Okay.” Dean set him on his lap, continuing to rub Isaiah’s back. “That’s okay. We’re not going to make you go. We just thought it might be fun.” He sighed as Isaiah hiccupped against his shoulder. “It’s been kind of a long day, huh?”  
   
Isaiah nodded, face still hidden. Dean brushed a hand through his hair. It was a little dirty, he realized. That gave him an idea.  
   
“Tell you what,” said Dean. “Sam,” (Sam jumped to attention), “Sam over there is going to go downstairs to the Starbucks and get some hot cocoa for you. Does that sound good?”  
   
A moment of hesitation, then a nod.  
   
“And while we’re waiting for him to come back,” Dean said, “you can take a quick bath. Wash the day away.” He was wheedling now. He knew it. “Put on some pajamas, get in bed, maybe watch some TV…”  
   
There was a much longer pause this time. Still rubbing Isaiah’s back, Dean pretended not to hold his breath. He was rewarded when, after a final sniffle, Isaiah sat up and glanced towards the bathroom. Dean beamed.  
   
“Awesome,” he said. “Why don’t you show Cas—I mean, your dad, where your pajamas are, and I’ll start getting the bath ready. Okay?” He lifted a newly compliant Isaiah up off his lap, and deposited him on the side of the bed. Castiel stepped forward while Dean got to his feet, pressing on the small of his back with a groan.  
   
“Will you show me where your pajamas are?” Castiel asked quietly. Isaiah looked at him, then slid off the bed and padded over to where they had laid out his suitcase. Meanwhile, Dean made for the bathroom, though he slipped a twenty into Sam’s hand, whispering,  
   
“Get the whipped cream. And the sprinkles,” before shoving his grinning brother towards the door.  
   
By the bed, Castiel was speaking softly. “I apologize if I…upset you,” he said, voice cautious. “It was not my intent.”  
   
Isaiah handed him a Mickey Mouse pajama top. Castiel held it up.  
   
“Is this yours?”  
   
A nod.  
   
“Where is the rest of it?”  
   
A shrug.  
   
Castiel regarded him for a moment, then began to dig through the rest of the suitcase’s contents. “Is this it?” he queried, holding up a perfectly matching set of bottoms.  
   
Isaiah shook his head. Castiel frowned.  
   
“But,” he said, but stopped when Isaiah pointed to a different set of pajama bottoms—these, with little Buzz Lightyears patterned all over them. “Those?” Castiel tilted his head. “Those don’t match.”  
   
In response, Isaiah pulled them all of the way out of the suitcase and clutched them to his chest. Castiel lifted his shoulders.  
   
“Very well,” he said, steering Isaiah towards Dean and the bathroom. He could hear the sounds of water running. Dean peered up at them as they stopped at the entrance.  
   
“Hey, kid.” He blinked at the pajamas, then said to Castiel, “Dude, those don’t even match.”  
   
“He chose them,” Castiel retorted, only a little bit defensively.  
   
“Oh, sure,” Dean said. He heaved himself off the floor. “Blame the four-year-old.”  
   
“I’m not—”  
   
“Come here, kiddo.” Dean drew Isaiah towards him. “Come on. Bath’s warm. I tested it for you. Shirt off.”  
   
Isaiah bit his lip, fingers plucking at the hem of his shirt. Then, he let go and held his arms up in the air. Dean blinked.  
   
“Need some help?” At the quiet nod, Dean reached down to help tug the shirt over Isaiah’s head. It mussed his hair incredibly. Dean reached down and messed it even further. He snickered as Isaiah turned to scowl up at him, reaching for his hair and flattening it. “Okay, pants,” he said.  
   
As Isaiah stepped out of his pants and underwear, leaving them crumpled on the floor, Castiel drew him aside.  
   
“Won’t he want…privacy?”  
   
“Uh,” Dean said. He turned to look at Isaiah, who was experimentally dipping his foot into the bath. He looked back at Castiel. “No?”  
   
Castiel frowned. “But you always request privacy when you bathe.”  
   
Dean cast his eyes heavenward. “That’s different, Cas. I’m a grown man.” He stuck his thumb in Isaiah’s direction. “He’s four. You can’t leave them alone in the tub and expect them to wash when they’re _four_. That’s like, parenting 101.”  
   
“Oh,” said Castiel, voice quiet. Behind them, Isaiah slipped into the water.  
   
“Come on,” Dean said, taking pity on him. “Roll up your sleeves. I’ll show you how it’s done.”  
   
Very carefully, Castiel did so. Dean meanwhile, reached over to the sink and grabbed one of the plastic cups and all three of the complimentary soap bottles. He popped open the top of the body wash, and knelt by the tub.  
   
“Hey, Isaiah.” Isaiah blinked at him. “Hold out your hands.” When Isaiah did so, Dean squirted a quarter-sized dollop of soap into them. “Soap up,” Dean told him, rubbing his hands together. After a moment, Isaiah copied him. When the bubbles began to froth, Dean mimed washing himself. Isaiah faithfully imitated his every move. For a brief second, Dean thought he even saw the hint of a smile. “Okay, time to rinse.”  
   
“You’re very good at this,” Castiel observed from his spot near the toilet. “Did you often help Sam bathe?”  
   
Dean moved back to avoid being splashed. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “When dad was gone for a while.” He wrinkled his nose. “Man, he was a dirty little kid. It was a hassle to even get him in here.” He pursed his lips. “We should get some bath toys,” he decided. He sighed. “It’s too bad you don’t have that archangel mojo to just poof things into thin air.”  
   
Castiel looked away. “I’m sorry my grace is so reduced. I know it makes things more difficult.”  
   
“Dude,” said Dean. “Your grace is fine. I was kidding. We can just pick some up at the store tomorrow.”  
   
Castiel shuffled his feet, then glanced over at Isaiah. “How do you wash his hair?”  
   
“Here.” Dean gave him the shampoo bottle. “Isaiah, your dad’s going to help you wash your hair, okay?”  
   
“Dean? But I don’t know how to—”  
   
Isaiah stopped splashing, and cast a doubtful look at them.  
   
“I won’t let any soap get in your eyes. I know a trick.” Dean winked. “Promise.” He leaned towards Castiel. “Just rub it into his hair,” he murmured. “I’ll show you how to rinse it out after.”  
   
A short dip of the head, and Castiel was approaching the bathtub like a prisoner to the noose. He knelt at the side of the tub and, after Isaiah seemed to give the go-ahead, began to gently wash his hair. A few minutes later, and Dean was demonstrating how to rinse it, pouring water from the plastic cup, and shielding Isaiah’s tilted-back face with his hand.  
   
“That should do it,” Dean said, unplugging the tub. As the water began to gurgle down the drain, he held out a towel. “Come on, kid. Let’s see if Sam’s back with that hot chocolate yet.”  
   
Isaiah submitted willingly to the towel, and then stood decently still while Castiel struggled to help him with the pajamas. Dean stood back for that one, covering his grin with his hand.  
   
Finally dressed and the bathwater drained, they trooped out of the bathroom to find Sam lounging on one of the beds. He waved to them, then pointed at the table where sat a small drink and a large cookie.  
   
“Bribery, Sammy?” Dean joked, as he handed both items to Castiel, who in turn gave the cup to Isaiah. “Sit at the table when you drink that,” Dean instructed, not even bothering to turn around.  
   
A little grudgingly, Isaiah stepped away from the rollaway bed and settled into a seat. Castiel sat next to him and began to unwrap the cookie.  
   
“This is a lot of sugar,” he said, a distinctly disproving tone in his voice. Nevertheless, he handed a piece of it to Isaiah.  
   
“It’s not like we have a Starbucks in the bunker,” Sam retorted. His eyes slipped closed. “Besides, it was the last one they had.”  
   
Castiel harrumphed, but still handed Isaiah a second chunk of cookie. He was in the process of re-wrapping the remainder of it when the blood suddenly drained from his face. He leaned forward, hands clenching on his knees.  
   
“Dean,” he said hoarsely.  
   
Immediately on alert, Dean spun around, while Sam’s eyes shot open and he sat back up. “What?” Dean demanded. Their eyes met.  
   
“Heaven is summoning me.”  
   
Dean frowned. “Why? Do they—” he hesitated. “Do you think they know?”  
   
“I don’t.” Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know. They haven’t summoned me in a very long time. Years. It must be serious.”  
   
“Well, don’t answer it.”  
   
“I can’t do that.”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“It will look even more suspicious.” Castiel rose, abandoning the cookie on the table. Isaiah watched him curiously, still chewing. “I have to go.”  
   
“What? Cas, no. You can’t leave us here.” Dean gripped his arm. He lowered his voice, nodding towards Isaiah. “You can’t leave him here.”  
   
But Castiel stepped away, his face set. “I must know if they know,” he said. “And if not, I must allay their suspicion. His survival depends on it.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said furiously. “Come on, man!”  
   
“I will return shortly.” Castiel licked his lips. “And if I do not…” he trailed off, giving Dean an intense look. “Please. Watch over him for me.”  
   
“Cas!”  
   
But with the sound of fluttering wings, Castiel was already gone. At the table, Isaiah’s mouth dropped open, his eyes round as saucers. He looked at the spot that Castiel had occupied, then to Dean, then back to the empty space.  
   
Dean ground his teeth. Shoulders slumping, he sat down in Castiel’s vacated seat. “Yeah, kid,” he said to Isaiah, not at all bitterly, “you and me both.” He exhaled, poking at the cookie. “He’ll be back.” He tried to sound reassuring, but it was hard, given what he knew about Castiel’s disappearing act. On the bed, Sam made a sympathetic noise.  
   
“He’ll be fine,” he said. “Anyway, the room’s warded up tight. We’re blind to angels in here.”  
   
Dean grunted. “They have ways.” He looked over at Isaiah, who, apparently already over the disappearing angel thing, had put his drink down and was rubbing his eyes. “All done, kid?” At the expected nod, he took the half-empty cup. “You have a toothbrush in that bag?”  
   
In response, Isaiah slipped off the chair and walked over to his suitcase. A few moments of digging, and he produced a bright orange toothbrush.  
   
“Okay,” said Dean, getting to his feet. “Let’s go.”  
   
After teeth were brushed and flossed, Dean settled Isaiah down in the rollaway. He dimmed the lights (Sam, engrossed in his laptop screen, barely noticed), and flicked on the TV, flipping channels until he found what looked like some kind of Disney movie. It had talking cartoon animals in it, anyway. He put the volume on low, and sat in the chair next to Isaiah’s bedside, watching with him, until Isaiah nodded off to sleep. When his breathing was deep and even, Dean turned off the TV.  
   
Sam closed his laptop. “He asleep?”  
   
Dean double-checked. “Looks like.”  
   
“That was fast.”  
   
“I’m just surprised he stayed in bed and didn’t ask for ten million glasses of water, like you did.”  
   
“Shut up.” Sam watched Isaiah for a moment, then said quietly. “He’s probably scared of upsetting you. Or Cas.”  
   
“Huh?”  
   
Sam put the laptop on the bedside table. He crossed his legs, resting against the backboard, chin in his hands. “I mean, aside from Crowley having him, he was also in foster care. Who knows what kind of people he stayed with?”  
   
Dean grimaced. “Dad might not have been the best, but at least we never got put in the system.”  
   
The corners of Sam’s mouth turned down. He bit his lip. “You’re good with him, you know.”  
   
“Shut up,” Dean said, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He let out a breath. “Think Cas will come back?”  
   
Sam snorted. “Are we taking bets?”  
   
“Right,” Dean muttered. He rose from the chair. “I’m going to sleep,” he said. “If Cas pops in during the middle of the night and you’re still awake, let him know I’ll chew him out in the morning, okay?”  
   
“Okay, Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Should I add a ‘don’t forget to take the trash out, dear,’ to the end of that? Or you want to tell him yourself?”  
   
“Don’t get smart with me. A man’s gotta get his four hours.” He began to stomp towards the bathroom, grumbling, “Can’t have frickin’ angels popping in and waking up the whole damm building.”  
   
Sam murmured his agreement. “Did he ever actually tell you what happened with Claire?”  
   
In the bathroom, Dean huffed. He spat out his toothpaste and stuck his head around the doorframe. “You’re kidding, right? I’d need a crowbar to pry that out of him.” He retreated back into the bathroom.  
   
“Jody says Claire’s not talking either,” Sam said, over the sound of running water. He watched as Dean came back into the main room, drying his face with a hand towel. “Actually, says she’s barely left her room.”  
   
“You texting with her?”  
   
In response, Sam held up his phone.  
   
“Christ.” Dean shucked off his shirt and jeans. Clad only in his boxers, he crawled into bed, scooting under the covers. “Well, her issues are going to have to wait,” he decided, relaxing against the pillow with a sigh. “We can only deal with one baby at a time—and now we’ve got three.”  
   
“What, you?”  
   
“I was talking about Cas, smartass,” Dean retorted, without opening his eyes. “We leave him alone with this kid, I think they both might die.”  
   
Sam’s mouth twisted. “At least he has you to be his co-pilot.” His look turned sly. “Or should I say, co- _parent_.”  
   
Dean cracked open one eye to glare at him. “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”  
   
“Whatever you say.” Sam was back to texting Jody. Dean considered throwing one of the extra pillows at him, but decided it wasn’t worth risking waking the kid. With that comforting, _mature_ thought in mind, he drifted off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean wasn’t a stranger to waking up in the very wee hours of the morning. Usually however, such wake-up calls were accompanied by the threat of imminent death—either his or someone else’s. Therefore, waking up out of the blue in the middle of the night with no phone ringing and nothing actively trying to claw his face off, yet with the irreconcilable feeling that _something is wrong_ , was a bit perplexing.  
   
He lay still in bed for a moment, trying to determine if something was actually happening, or if he’d just run into one of those signs of aging that Bobby had been so happy to grump about, when he heard the noise.  
   
Sitting up, Dean flicked on the bedside lamp. Over on the other queen, Sam grumbled something and rolled over into the nest of pillows. Dean ignored him.  
   
“Isaiah,” he whispered. “Isaiah, what’s wrong?”  
   
Hearing his voice, Isaiah lifted a tear-streaked countenance. When he saw Dean peering over the side of the bed at him, his face crumpled, and he began to cry in earnest.  
   
Dean pushed the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Two steps, and he was standing by the cot.  
   
“Kid, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he said. “Did you have a bad dream?” He began to crouch down to eye-level and that’s when he noticed it. He paused.  
   
Clearly noticing that Dean had noticed, Isaiah’s sobs devolved into downright weeping gasps that, quite frankly, left Dean very alarmed.  
   
“Dude,” he said. “Isaiah,” he corrected. “It’s fine. It’s—it’s just an accident, okay? I’m not—I’m not mad at you.”  
   
Over on the other bed, Sam sat up. “What’s happening?” he yawned.  
   
“Go back to sleep, Sam,” Dean said tersely. He picked Isaiah up, heedless of the soaked pajama bottoms, and sat him down on his lap. Isaiah’s whole body shook. “It’s okay,” Dean repeated. “I’m not mad, okay? I just need you to breathe for me.” He rubbed circles onto his back. “Can you do that?”  
   
A fresh bout of tears indicated that no, no he could not do that. Not quite sure what to do, Dean hesitated, then rotated Isaiah so that the kid’s back was to his chest, wrapping his arms around him from behind. Praying that Sam wasn’t watching, he began to rock back and forth. “It’s okay,” he found himself mumbling, almost sing-song (if Sam was awake he was never going to live this down). “Just breathe, okay? I’m not mad at you.”  
   
Very slowly, Isaiah quieted to the occasional hiccup. When Dean judged that it was safe to let go, he relaxed his arms. Isaiah leaned against him, fingers curled on Dean’s wrist as they sat together in silence.  
   
“I bet those are pretty uncomfortable,” Dean said, after a few more minutes of hiccupping. He nudged him. “Let’s get you into something dry.”  
   
Painstakingly, Isaiah clutching at his arm, Dean stood up. Not wanting to bother searching through Isaiah’s suitcase for a fresh pair of pajamas, he snagged one of his own t-shirts from his half-zipped duffle on the way to the bathroom.  
   
It was as he was helping Isaiah out of his wet clothes, and then giving him a quick hose-down in the shower, that Dean began to feel guilty.  
   
Damn it, he should have remembered to _remind_ the kid to go to the bathroom before bed. He knew stuff like this happened. Not to mention that he probably shouldn’t have given him an entire thing of hot chocolate, either.  
   
Some kind of guardian he was turning out to be.  
   
When Isaiah was clean, Dean tugged the t-shirt over his head, smothering a laugh as it fell to his ankles.  
   
“It suits you, kid,” he said, fluffing Isaiah’s hair. In response, Isaiah stuck his thumb into his mouth. Dean gently reached over and pulled it away. “Come on,” he said, before Isaiah had a chance to complain. He hoisted him up, exiting the bathroom. Isaiah rested his head on Dean’s shoulder.  
   
When they reached the bed, Dean gnawed on his lower lip, considering. They didn’t exactly have clean sheets, and he couldn’t make Isaiah sleep in a wet bed. A quick check informed him that Isaiah’s eyes were already half-shut.  
   
With a sigh, Dean accepted his fate. Walking around to the far side of his own bed, he drew back the covers and deposited his burden a little to the right of center. That done, he moved the covers back up, tucking them around Isaiah’s chin. Isaiah promptly rolled over onto his side and, to all observers, passed the fuck out.  
   
Dean walked back to the other side of the bed, closer to the bedside table. He gingerly lay down on top of the covers, and flicked off the lamp. Now encased in darkness, he let out a long exhale.  
   
This might end up being a little harder than he’d thought.  
   
   
#  
   
   
Someone was watching him.  
   
Dean’s whole body tensed. Then, recognizing the presence, he slowly relaxed. He cracked open one eye, just to make sure.  
   
“Mornin’, Cas,” he said, voice hoarse.  
   
“Good morning.” Castiel got off the chair, approaching the bedside. He was holding what looked like a cup of coffee.  
   
“I see you made it back.” It was too early to sound biting. Dean hoped the feeling translated anyway.  
   
“Yes.” Castiel handed him the coffee. Dean took it gratefully. “I did.” He frowned. “Dean, why is Isaiah in your bed? And why is he wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt?”  
   
Yawning again, Dean sat up. He cast a look at Isaiah’s side of the bed and, seeing that he was still dead to the world, exited carefully. He pointed towards the cot. “We’re going to have to add, like, pull-ups or something to that grocery list.”  
   
Following his gaze, Castiel inspected the cot. His nose wrinkled. “Urine?” he queried. “Why would he have urinated in bed?”  
   
Dean spared a moment to be grateful that Castiel hadn’t actually been there. Talk about the only thing that would’ve made a bad situation even worse. “He didn’t do it on purpose, Cas,” he said, taking a sip of the coffee. It was pretty good. Castiel must have gotten it from downstairs. “Little kids do that sometimes. I think he probably had a nightmare or something.”  
   
“You never urinated in bed when you had a nightmare,” Castiel said severely.  
   
“I’m not a little kid, Cas.” Dean set the coffee down. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s normal.” He began to pull on the shirt. “I probably shouldn’t have given him all that stuff to drink though,” he admitted. “And reminded him to go.” He stuck his legs into yesterday’s jeans. “That’s on me.”  
   
“Dean, no.” Castiel shook his head. “If, as you say, it is—normal, for a child of his age, then it is not your fault.”  
   
Dean shrugged. “It probably didn’t help.”  
   
“He seems peaceful enough now.” Castiel drifted closer to Isaiah, one hand hovering over his head.  
   
“We should still get some pull-ups,” Dean decided. “I don’t want to have to do laundry every night.” He drained the rest of his coffee, searching for a change in subject. He didn’t have to look far to find one. “So, how did it go with the armies of heaven?” he asked.  
   
Castiel looked at him strangely. “I didn’t meet with the Armies of Heaven.”  
   
“Whatever.” Dean put the empty cup down. “I can see you’re alive, so it couldn’t have been too bad. Or do we need to put more angel warding up? Is Isaiah going to need an armed escort when he starts kindergarten?”  
   
Castiel was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally.  
   
“You don’t know?” Dean ripped off a piece of the complimentary stationary, and uncapped a pen. On the paper, he wrote _bath toys_ , then under it, _pull-ups?_ “What do you mean, you don’t know?”  
   
Castiel stared down at his hands. “The cooperation and strength of will required to summon an angel who has cut himself off from Heaven, is immense. I approached the situation expecting a trap, but the only one to greet me was Joshua.”  
   
“Joshua?” Dean blinked in surprise. “I guess he made it back up there, huh? What did he want?”  
   
“He was very cryptic.” Castiel frowned.  
   
“What a shocker,” Dean said. He wrote down _crayons_ , _coloring stuff_. “Cryptic? Not Joshua.” Gnawing on the tip of the pen he then added, _socks, new hat, muffin tin_. “On a scale of one to Ben Kenobi, how cryptic was he?”  
   
Castiel’s mouth twitched. “He said he needed to…ascertain my wellbeing. And then he recited a verse from Proverbs 1:8-9 at me.”  
   
“Uh,” said Dean, after a moment of Castiel eyeing him expectantly. “You’re going to have to refresh my memory on that one.”  
   
“In English,” Castiel said, “ _Listen, my son, to your father’s instruction and do not forsake your mother’s teaching. They are a garland to grace your head and a chain to adorn your neck.”_  
   
Dean’s forehead wrinkled skeptically. “So…he knows? That doesn’t sound good.”  
   
But Castiel shook his head. “I don’t think that’s what he meant.”  
   
“Well,” said Dean, writing down _eggs, potatoes, peanut butter_ , “you’re the expert.” He tossed down the pen and rested his chin in his hands. “What did he mean?”  
   
“I’m not sure.”  
   
“Cas!”  
   
“I think,” Cas continued, eyes narrowed in thought, “he was either trying to bestow some advice, or he was attempting to warn me.” He pursed his lips. “Or both.” He looked up at Dean. “I believe that if Joshua knows, he has not told the rest of Heaven.”  
   
“So…that’s good?” Dean cocked his head. “Can we expect that he’s going to continue keeping his mouth shut?”  
   
Castiel shrugged. “It’s possible that he has reason to think that Heaven will find out eventually. Perhaps that was the warning.”  
   
“And the advice?”  
   
Castiel shook his head.  
   
“Great.” Dean lightly smacked the table. “So we just…keep looking over our shoulders then, huh?”  
   
“I’m sorry.” Castiel moved his hand over, so that it just barely brushed the knuckle of Dean’s thumb. “I wish I knew more.”  
   
Dean gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I know. I mean, he’s your kid. It just sucks, is all.”  
   
“Indeed.” Castiel inclined his head.  
   
“Here.” Dean brandished his shopping list. “Can you think of anything else we need? I tried to stock up on kid friendly food but,” his mouth twisted, “I’m not really sure what normal kids eat that's not cold spaghettios out of the can.”  
   
Castiel peered at the list. “Do children not eat the same foods as adults?”  
   
Dean snickered, then snatched it back. “You’re welcome to try.”  
   
“Hmm.” Castiel looked thoughtful. “He ate the cheese pizza. Perhaps some cheese?”  
   
“You got it.” Dean scribbled it down. He then put the pen down and checked the time. “It’s almost seven. We should probably get them up.”  
   
“Children are often cranky when they receive too little sleep,” Castiel said knowingly.  
   
“See?” Dean smiled at him. “You’re learning already.”  
   
Castiel made a noise of agreement. “Yes, I learned that from observing you.”  
   
“No need to be a dick,” Dean told him. He smacked Sam on the shoulder as he rounded the bed. “Wake up, Sammy!”  
   
“Ow!” Sam flailed for a moment, trapped beneath the blankets. “What the hell, Dean?” he said, as he disentangled himself.  
   
Dean beamed as he moved away. “Rise and shine!”  
   
Grumbling, Sam sat up, the covers falling to his waist. “Was Isaiah okay last night?” he asked through a yawn.  
   
“We figured it out.” Dean watched for a moment as Sam gathered his clothes, then stepped over to his bed, where Isaiah was still sleeping. Castiel was standing hesitantly on the other side. Dean gave him a look, then gently shook Isaiah’s shoulder. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Time to get up.”  
   
Isaiah made a noise of protest, and rolled to face the window. Dean huffed out a laugh. “Come on,” he said. “Look who’s back.”  
   
Isaiah’s eyes cracked open. Castiel gave an awkward wave.  
   
“Good morning, Isaiah.”  
   
Blue eyes regarded blue. Isaiah’s lips twitched upward for a moment, the hint of a smile so fast that it was barely visible before it was gone again. Isaiah then turned his head, clearly looking for Dean. Something in Castiel’s chest unknotted.  
   
“Morning, kiddo,” said Dean. “Go pee and brush your teeth, then we can pick out some clothes.” He pointed at the bathroom.  
   
Isaiah tilted his head. His gaze travelled over to Dean’s empty coffee cup.  
   
“When you’re dressed, there’s breakfast downstairs.” Dean leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think I saw Fruit Loops.” He winked as Isaiah perked up at the mention. “Clothes first,” he said. “Hurry up.”  
   
Isaiah hurried.  
   
Downstairs in the lobby’s continental breakfast, Dean scoffed at the fake eggs and loaded his plate with a waffle with all the fixings, while Sam made do with a yogurt and granola. Castiel shadowed Isaiah at the cereals, helping him select and pour the milk, keeping careful mental notes on which cereals he chose.  
   
They reconvened at a table, where Dean laid out the schedule for the day.  
   
“I’ve got a list,” he said, digging it out of his coat pocket. Sam motioned to him, and Dean slid it across the table. “Need anything else?”  
   
“Hmm.” Sam tapped his chin. “More spray paint, maybe.”  
   
“Don’t we have a whole crate left?”  
   
“Nah, used it for the demons in Wichita.”  
   
“Man.” Dean marked it down. “Shi—stuff gets used fast.”  
   
He turned to Isaiah, who was sitting next to Castiel, legs swinging as he slurped his cereal. “Want anything from the store, kid?”  
   
Isaiah shrugged. Then he pointed at Dean’s plate.  
   
“Waffles?” Dean’s eyebrows rose. He looked at Castiel when Isaiah shook his head. “No waffles?”  
   
“I think he just wants some of yours,” Sam said into his ear.  
   
“What?” Dean blinked down at his plate, then back at Isaiah. “Dude,” he said. “You already have cereal.”  
   
“I’ll go make him one,” Castiel said, already half-standing.  
   
More to prevent Castiel from potentially breaking the waffle iron than anything else, Dean shook his head. “No, it’s fine.” He took his knife, stole Sam’s fruit plate, and cut and deposited a small piece. “This is a one time thing, kid,” Dean told him as he pushed it over.  Isaiah immediately attacked it. “I mean it. Shut your mouth, Sammy,” Dean said absently, as he added waffles to the list. “You’ll catch flies.”  
   
Sam shot him an incredulous look.  
   
“Okay,” Dean said, slapping the pen down and looking the list over one more time. “I think that’s just about everything.” He shoved back his chair. “Let’s get this show on the road.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
They barreled down the highway, car stuffed to the brim with everything from for-sale bulk ketchup, to a tower of jigsaw puzzles. Dean, adjusting the rearview mirror and seeing Isaiah clutching the stuffed dog that Sam had snuck into the cart and also totally conked out, breathed a sigh of relief.  
   
“You know,” he said to Castiel, who raised weary eyes to meet Dean’s in the mirror, “for a kid who doesn’t talk, he is really demanding.”  
   
“You didn’t have to buy all the coloring books,” Castiel said sensibly.  
   
Dean sniffed. “What the hell else is he going to do in the bunker? He can’t just watch cartoons all day.”  
   
“Especially not on my laptop,” Sam added.  
   
“Don’t be stingy.”  
   
“I need it to do research.”  
   
“We’ll manage.” Castiel held up his phone. “I’m looking up—I believe they are called ‘play dates?’ Yes. I am searching for places nearby.”  
   
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Dean asked, as he sped up to pass a truck. “How do you even know what a play date is? I only know because of, you know.” He hesitated. “Ben.”  
   
If he noticed the pause in Dean’s speech, Castiel gave no indication. He was playing with his phone again. “Sam explained them to me.”  
   
Dean slowly turned to give Sam the eye.  
   
“What?” Sam defended. “He’s going to have to socialize sometime.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Dean turned on his signal, and took the next exit. “What happens when he wants to bring friends over and we have to make them drink holy water and explain that we live in a broken-down factory that’s actually a secret lair?”  
   
“I think you’re overreacting.”  
   
“That is something of a conundrum,” Castiel agreed. “However, the meetings I’ve looked up seem to take place at fairly neutral areas—libraries and schools. He should be safe, so long as I accompany him.”  
   
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.  
   
“Cas, you can’t follow him everywhere.”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms. “Why not?”  
   
“Because,” Dean said.  
   
“That’s not an answer.”  
   
Sam took up the slack. “Cas, he’s going to want to be independent at some point. You can’t just—be there all the time. You’ll smother him.”  
   
Mouth a thin line, Castiel said, “I would rather have him be smothered than killed because I was not watching.”  
   
An uncomfortable silence descended upon the car. Sam snapped his mouth shut. Dean rubbed at his forehead.  
   
“We’re here,” he said unnecessarily, as he pulled into the side road near the bunker. He shut off the ignition and turned around in his seat.  
   
The change in motion had jolted Isaiah awake. He was rubbing his eyes, looking around with interest. When he spotted the bunker, his face turned skeptical. He turned to Dean and tilted his head as if to say, _this is it?_  
   
“Believe me, kid,” Dean said. He unclipped his seatbelt. “It’s nicer inside.” He nodded to Castiel. “You want to take him in, while Sam and I get the stuff?”  
   
In response, Castiel opened his door and went around to the other side to help Isaiah out of his booster seat. Sam and Dean headed for the trunk, Dean passing the key to Castiel.  
   
By the time they finished unloading the car, Castiel had managed to convince Isaiah to settle down at the main table with one of his new coloring books.  
   
“At least he likes to color,” Sam observed, as he carried the last of the bags in past the war room and into the kitchen.  
   
“Thank god for small favors.” Dean began to put away the pasta into the pantry, then changed his mind and left it out. It was almost time for dinner, anyway.  
   
“He seems like a pretty good kid.”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean reached for an onion and began to chop. “Honestly, that’s kind of what’s freaking me out.”  
   
“What, you don’t think Cas would have a good kid?”  
   
“That’s not what I meant.” Dean moved the onions aside and started on the mushrooms. “That ground beef still good?”  
   
“Should be.” Sam opened the refrigerator to check. “Yeah, it’s fine.” He handed it over. “What did you mean?”  
   
“I meant,” Dean said, dropping onions into the skillet. They sizzled and spat. “No kid is _that_ good _all of the time_.”  
   
“You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Sam leaned back against the counter, watching Dean dice the peppers like each had individually offended his taste in music. “Maybe he’s just quiet.”  
   
Dean grimaced. “Or maybe he doesn’t trust us.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Or, I don't know. Maybe Crowley really screwed him up.”  
   
“Come on, Dean.”  
   
“Really, Sam? You don’t think being the King of Hell’s prisoner for a few weeks could’ve traumatized him for life?” He went after the mushrooms next. “You know, honestly I’d make him go see a shrink if one wouldn’t be guaranteed to think we were all nuts.” He returned to the skillet, scowling, tossing in the mushrooms.  
   
“Yeah, you’d think there’d be a market for that,” Sam mused.  
   
A few moments of them picturing it, and they both shuddered.  
   
“Definitely wouldn’t want that job,” Dean said. He filled up a pot with water, and placed it on the stovetop, then cranked on the heat.  
   
“Can you imagine?” Sam shook his head in bemusement.  
   
“I’m really trying not to,” Dean told him, covering the pot with a lid. He dusted off his hands. “Anyway, you see what I’m trying to get at, here?”  
   
“You think Cas’s kid is screwed in the head?”  
   
“No.” Dean glared. “I’m not saying that.”  
   
“Yeah. I think you are.”  
   
“Dude.”  
   
“But I don’t think Crowley really could’ve had much of a chance to do anything to him, aside from keeping him in that room,” Sam said, stroking his chin. “I mean, his mom was there, guarding him.”  
   
“His dead mom’s _ghost_.” Dean slammed the pot lid back onto the counter to check the water. It wasn’t boiling yet. He replaced the lid with a scowl.  
   
Sam sighed. “Dean, he’s half angel,” he said. “No matter what, I don’t think he was ever going to be like your average kid.”  
   
Dean muttered something.  
   
“What?”  
   
“I said that’s bullshit, all right?” Dean whirled around, hands on his hips. “It’s just—it’s just shit that all this happened to him, and he’s barely four.” He turned back to the stove. “It’s shit that things like this can happen to kids.”  
   
Sam frowned. “Are you sure you’re still talking about Isaiah?” he asked carefully.  
   
Dean didn’t answer.  
   
His eyes widening a little in realization, Sam said, “He reminds you of you. Of us.”  
   
“Come on, Sam.” Dean stirred the sauce. “I’m not in the mood for one of your pop psychology sessions. The kid got the shit end of a shit stick, and I’m mad about it. That’s all.”  
   
“Dean, it’s not that much of a leap.”  
   
“Sure is from my angle.”  
   
“Dean, it’s not the same.”  
   
“Oh yeah? Why not?”  
   
“Because,” Sam said, gesturing a little helplessly. “Because he’s got you.”  
   
Dean stilled.  
   
“And Cas,” Sam continued. “And I mean—a place to live that’s not a bunch of stinking motels, and a—a dad who’s not on some crazy quest for revenge. But you, Dean.” Sam pushed himself off the counter. “Even when dad was there, you were a better dad than him.”  
   
“Dad did the best he could.” Dean’s voice was hoarse.  
   
Sam made a face. “I don’t think we’re ever going to agree on that.” He plucked the spoon from Dean’s hand, and moved past him to throw the pasta in the water. “But the fact remains, you did all the stuff for me that dad never did.” He put down the spoon. “The kid has you as a parent, he’s going to be fine.”  
   
“But I’m not his dad.”  
   
“Give me a break,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. But he was cut off from saying more when Castiel wandered into the kitchen.  
   
“Is that dinner?” he queried, peering into the pot.  
   
“It will be in about ten minutes.” Dean reached into one of the drawers and pulled out four placemats. “Could you get this?”  
   
“Plates or bowls?” Castiel asked, as he accepted the placemats.  
   
Dean turned to Sam with a significant look. “Why can’t you be helpful like this guy?”  
   
“You never asked me to.”  
   
“Plates or bowls?” Castiel repeated. “Oh, and do we have milk? I think Isaiah should drink milk. I’ve heard it’s healthful for children’s bones.”  
   
“There might be a little left over. We didn’t get any at the store.”  
   
Castiel stuck his head into the refrigerator. After a few minutes of fishing, he pulled out a carton and shook it back and forth. Satisfied at the splashing noise, he put it on the counter and turned back to Dean, hands on his hips.  
   
“Oh yeah, and plates are good,” Dean said, suppressing a grin.  
   
“Very well.” Castiel moved to brush past him to reach the appropriate cupboard. “And the—”  
   
He broke off when a loud crash echoed from the other room.  
   
Dean and Castiel exchanged panicked looks. In the next instant, Castiel had already vanished, and Dean was sprinting through the doorway, leaving Sam standing there, blinking.  
   
“Uh, okay then?” he said, dumbly. He couldn’t hear any crying or screaming, so he took the time to stir the pasta once more, before going to see what the ruckus was about.  
   
When Sam poked his head in through the doorway, it became immediately clear that whatever it was, it had to do with the scimitar display.  
   
Or, rather, the former scimitar display.  
   
From the looks of things—a sword on the ground, plenty of shattered glass lying around, and Isaiah standing guiltily with his head lowered—apparently even a rather recalcitrant four-year-old was not immune to the call of a shiny object in a display case.  
   
“Isaiah, you could have been seriously injured,” Castiel was scolding, even as he knelt down to inspect him for damage.  
   
Sam lifted an eyebrow, reasonably sure that if a car crash had left him without a scratch, a regular sword wasn’t going to do too much to Isaiah either, but he figured that it wasn’t his place to say.  
   
Meanwhile, Dean was standing next to them, visibly struggling to contain himself. “Why were you even trying to touch the sword?” he burst out. “That’s not kid stuff, kid. It’s dangerous.”  
   
“And it does not belong to you,” Castiel added.  
   
Surrounded by a shroud of disproval, Isaiah shrugged. His lower lip trembled a little, and he toyed with the hem of his shirt.  
   
Dean covered his face with his hands. Rubbing his temples, he took in a deep breath, exhaled, then said, “Look, kid, was this an accident?”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms. Isaiah gave a serious nod.  
   
Dean sighed. “Okay, new rule? Ask if you want to see the sword, okay?” He paused, then added, “That goes for any kind of weapon around here, okay? You’re not, under any circumstances, allowed to touch any knives, swords, guns, machetes, whips, matches—”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel placed a hand on his arm, indicating towards Isaiah, whose eyes were wide. Dean coughed.  
   
“Any weapon,” he repeated lamely. “Got it? They’re dangerous. We don’t want you to get hurt. Understand?”  
   
A third nod. Isaiah scuffed his foot.  
   
“And as…punishment,” Castiel began, then stopped. He looked at Dean, as if to say, **_do_ **_we punish him? How do we punish him?_  
   
Dean closed his eyes. “Put your coloring stuff away…” he looked around the bunker and, spotting an empty desk, pointed, “over there. Then you can help Cas set the table. Sam and I will clean this up. I don’t want you stepping on the glass.”  
   
Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it. He dipped his head firmly. “Yes. You will help me set the table.”  
   
“Coloring stuff first,” Dean reminded them.  
   
“Coloring stuff first,” Castiel repeated.  
   
Isaiah looked from Dean to Castiel, then slowly turned around and plodded back to the table. Sam watched him make his dejected way, trying not to openly laugh, while Dean walked back to the kitchen in search of a broom.  
   
“Well?” Sam said, when Dean stepped past him, “I’d say that’s pretty normal for a kid. Do you feel better now?”  
   
Dean scowled at him. “Shut your face,” he said, shoving the dustpan at Sam’s chest, “and help me with this.”  
   
“You’re going to have to put that sword somewhere else.”  
   
“We’re going to have to try and childproof the entire bunker,” Dean growled, stumping over to the scene of the crime.  
   
Still chortling, Sam followed him.  
   
   
#  
   
   
Dinner was refreshingly non-disastrous, and not too long after that, Dean succeeded in helping Castiel put Isaiah to bed. Dean even produced a night-light, which he stuck into the wall of the formerly empty bedroom with a flourish.  
   
“Maybe we should paint it,” Dean mused, as he and Castiel collapsed together onto the couch. Sam had already claimed the squishy chair and was passed out cold, laptop still open.  
   
Castiel tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I do not understand why I am so tired.”  
   
“I hear kids do that to you,” Dean slapped his thigh, “Daddy-o.” The look he received in return was not quite a glare, but it was close enough to set Dean to sniggering.  
   
“Dean, that’s not funny.” Castiel lolled his head against the couch. “I’m an angel. I should not be tired.”  
   
Covering his mouth with his hand, Dean let out a yawn. He allowed his head to flop onto Castiel’s shoulder. “Well, I’m not an angel, so I am allowed to be tired.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Your kid is exhausting, dude.”  
   
Sneaking a look to make sure that Sam was indeed asleep, Castiel gently reached up to run his fingers through Dean’s hair. “I’m concerned that he doesn’t speak.”  
   
Dean grunted.  
   
“Surely he must be able to speak.” Castiel gnawed on his lower lip. “Perhaps Crowley did something to take away his voice,” he theorized.  
   
“I hope you mean metaphorically,” Dean rumbled.  
   
“I wonder if I should check him for curses.”  
   
Dean gripped Castiel’s wrist to still him, and sat up. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I didn’t talk for a little while after my mom died.”  
   
Castiel’s fingers closed over his. “You didn’t?”  
   
Dean shook his head. “Sometimes, when my dad wasn’t—wasn’t listening, I’d talk to Sammy a little bit.” He cracked a smile. “Sammy was just a baby, so he didn’t understand, anyway. But to my dad? Or any other adult? Not a peep.”  
   
“What made you start again?”  
   
“I don’t know.” Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Wasn’t any one thing, just…I guess I was ready.” He tilted his head back again. “Anyway, Sammy needed me. Couldn’t have an older brother who didn’t talk.”  
   
“I see,” Castiel said softly. He glanced down, where Dean was still holding on to his hand. “I will not check Isaiah for curses, then.”  
   
“Only you, Cas.” Dean’s voice was fond.  
   
Castiel settled back into the couch. “Do you think Isaiah would like it if we painted the room like you said?”  
   
“I probably would’ve,” Dean admitted. “Man, growing up,” he passed his hand over his eyes, “probably would’ve killed for my own room. Or even a room to share with Sammy. Just somewhere I could, like, keep my stuff…put up posters…”  
   
“You have that now.”  
   
“Yeah, Sam made fun of me for weeks after I bought that memory foam.” He smiled triumphantly. “I definitely sleep way better than him though.”  
   
“Do you?”  
   
“Absolutely.” Dean heaved a sigh and stretched, letting go of Castiel’s hand in the process. “Hey, Cas,” he said, after a few minutes of quiet. Cas’s fingers were combing through his hair again.  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“Are you going to tell me what happened with Claire?”  
   
The hand on his head stopped moving. “I would rather not discuss it.”  
   
“Cas.”  
   
Castiel let out a long breath. He settled both hands into his lap. “When I attempted to explain to her, she did not seem pleased.”  
   
“Uh, were you expecting her to be?”  
   
“I wish she had given me a chance to explain more fully.”  
   
“How far did you get?”  
   
Castiel looked down. “I told her I had accidentally sired a son with a woman named Daphne Allen, and that the child was in danger.”  
   
Dean choked. “Please tell me you didn’t actually use those words.”  
   
“Very well, I won’t.”  
   
“Cas.” Dean’s voice was exasperated. “Man, is the word ‘tact’ even in your vocabulary?”  
   
“I thought she would prefer the truth.”  
   
Dean shook his head. “There’s the truth, and then there’s the _truth_.”  
   
“I didn’t wish to lie to her.” Castiel leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Many individuals have lied to her over the years. I do not want to be counted among them.”  
   
“I think you could’ve been a little bit more delicate.” Dean cracked his knuckles. “What did she say?”  
   
“Little.” Castiel was examining his hands now, turning them over with great interest. “She just said, ‘okay.’”  
   
“Okay?” Dean pursed his lips. “That’s not too bad, I guess. Maybe she just needs some time to digest it.”  
   
“Then she turned her back on me, sat down at her desk, and proceeded to ignore me until I left.”  
   
Dean winced. “Or not.”  
   
“By body she _is_ Isaiah’s sister.” Castiel’s voice was low. “I wish for Isaiah to know her.” He paused, then added, “I think Claire would benefit as well.”  
   
Placing a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, Dean said, “I think you’re just going to have to keep trying. She might come around.” Bracing himself on Castiel’s shoulder, he got to his feet.  
   
“You think so?” Castiel looked up at him. Dean made a vague gesture.  
   
“She doesn’t hate you anymore. And that only took—what? Five years?”  
   
“Nearly ten.”  
   
“Whatever.” Dean waved him away. “Point is, she might change her mind. You just have to keep trying.”  
   
Castiel’s face was pensive. “Very well,” he said finally. He tilted his head at Dean. “But what if she wishes to be left alone?”  
   
“She’s a teenaged girl, Cas. They _always_ say they want to be left alone.”  
   
Doubtful expression in place, Castiel slowly nodded. “I will keep trying.”  
   
“Good.” Dean gave him a squeeze. “I’m going to hit the sack,” he said. He thumbed at Sam, whose mouth was slightly open as he snored. “Make sure Gigantor over there doesn’t sleep all night like that. He’ll get a crick in his neck.”  
   
“I’ll wake him,” Castiel promised. He smiled up at Dean. “Thank you, Dean.”  
   
“For what?” Dean scoffed.  
   
Castiel squinted, looking honestly confused. “For everything.”  
   
Dean’s cheeks reddened. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Dude, you’re embarrassing me.”  
   
“My apologies.” Castiel sat back, legs crossed, and fished for the TV remote. “Goodnight, Dean.”  
   
“Night, Cas.”


	6. Chapter 6

The days gradually fell into a pattern. Isaiah, once his body adjusted to living in the bunker, tended to wake up at seven am on the dot every morning. Even Saturdays. Luckily for Dean, Castiel didn’t exactly sleep, and was therefore always on hand to get him dressed and ready for the day. Unluckily for Dean, Castiel’s breakfast making talents ended at pouring milk and cereal into a bowl, and so if Dean wanted the kid to have a diet outside of Fruit Loops and Captain Crunch, he was forced to get up too.  
   
As the days turned into weeks and they heard nothing from Heaven, the tension between Castiel’s shoulder blades slowly lessened. He still insisted on accompanying Isaiah anywhere outside the bunker (no matter if the Winchesters were there or not) but he could now be persuaded to go further afield.  
   
They went to a park, where Sam mooned over the dogs, and Castiel and Dean watched Isaiah like a hawk while he attempted to climb the rope structure.  
   
“I don’t think that’s regulation,” Dean muttered, as the structure creaked and swayed. Castiel nodded solemnly in agreement, fingers, as always, just short of his angel blade.  
   
They went grocery shopping, and stocked up on the sort of items that Dean had always wanted as a child—single serve bags of gummies, goldfish crackers, and juice boxes—but never bought as an adult.  
   
Castiel bemoaned the sugar content, but Dean went ahead and bought them anyway.  
   
At Sam’s behest, they even went to the Farmer’s market just outside of town, and came home with about fifteen different varieties of vegetables, half of which Dean wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to pronounce.  
   
They ate a lot of stir-fry that week.  
   
It was the sort of domestic living that Dean had always vaguely imagined, usually between those moments of getting into bed and drifting off to sleep. To be fair, he hadn’t envisioned the living space to be a secret, underground, evil-fighting bunker, with a family unit made up of his brother, a rebellious angel, and the angel’s half-human spawn, but he was going with it.  
   
Of course, things were not always roses.  
   
For example, it was almost impossible to get delivery to the bunker (Dean had succeeded exactly one time, and then the pizza place in question henceforth refused to “deliver to any more underground raves, that’s a liability, sir”). So, when he was tired of cooking but still had two other mouths to feed—Cas didn’t count, even if he did end up eating half the time anyway—he was forced to drive to Lebanon to retrieve his order.  
   
Sometimes, Castiel could be persuaded to be the delivery boy, but other times, Dean used it as an excuse to just—get some fresh air.  
   
(He liked Isaiah, he really did, but Dean was tired of stepping on legos on the way to the war room.)  
   
Dean returned from one such excursion, hot pies of bliss firmly in hand, to be greeted by a very harried Castiel at the entrance.  
   
“Isaiah is floating on the ceiling,” Castiel informed him, surprisingly calm as he accepted the two pizza boxes and headed for the kitchen.  
   
Following him, Dean cursed. “I thought we got everything?”  
   
“His soccer ball went down into the basement.” Castiel closed the door, then pulled what looked like a half-empty perfume bottle out of the pocket of his borrowed jeans. He shook the liquid inside. “I think it spilled on him.”  
   
“At least he didn’t drink it,” Dean muttered. He got out the paper plates. “Is there an antidote or something?”  
   
“Amazingly,” Castiel said dryly, “Sam was able to find a record of this one. Ostensibly, it wears off after thirty-seven minutes.”  
   
“How long has it been?”  
   
“Twenty-nine.”  
   
“Couldn’t have gotten home ten minutes later,” Dean sighed, rolling his eyes. “Sam! Pizza!” he hollered. He pulled out two slices of meat-lovers and put it on the plate. Castiel eyed it.  
   
“Did you remember get plain cheese?”  
   
In the middle of rinsing off his hands, Dean flicked water at him. “Of course I remembered. You were standing right next to me when I ordered. Jesus.”  
   
“Just making sure,” Castiel asserted, as he stole a piece off Dean’s plate.  
   
“Hey.” Dean scowled. “You don’t even need to eat.”  
   
“It always tastes better when it’s someone else’s,” Castiel mused. “It’s a very peculiar phenomenon.”  
   
“Asshole.” Dean took a bite of his remaining slice. “Don’t you have a floating kid to go catch or something?”  
   
“I think he’s pretty much indestructible at this point,” Sam remarked, walking into the kitchen with a wriggling Isaiah under one arm. He handed him off to Castiel. “I think your countdown was a little off.”  
   
“Thank you,” Castiel said, accepting him. Isaiah giggled. He had an oddly silent laugh, almost a wheeze, really. But hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers. At least he was laughing.  
   
“Hey, kiddo,” Dean said. “Want some pizza?”  
   
Isaiah’s eyes lit up. He struggled down, and Castiel dropped him gratefully.  
   
“I got all broccoli for you,” Dean said, opening up the box. He let out a laugh when Isaiah put his hands on his hips, scowl in place. “Just kidding.” Dean pulled out the cheese. “That’s incredibly eerie when he does that,” he said to Castiel as he went over to the table, plates in hand. “Like a miniature you.”  
   
“So you’ve said.” Castiel serenely chomped on his stolen pizza.  
   
They were just finishing up, Dean collecting the plates to throw away, when Castiel’s phone buzzed. Castiel took it out with a huff, looked at the message, and then shoved it back into his pocket.  
   
“Crowley again?” Dean asked. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed.  
   
“I don’t understand what he thinks he’s going to accomplish.” Castiel ground his teeth. “He doesn't even have any leverage at this point.” He lowered his voice. “How could he expect for me to just give him Isaiah’s grace?”  
   
“Cause he’s a nut,” Dean said, sipping his beer.  
   
Over by the table, Sam grunted in agreement, catching Isaiah’s tilting sippy cup with one hand, and guiding it away from the edge. “You could just block his number.”  
   
“I prefer to have a general sense of him.”  
   
Dean nodded sagely. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”  
   
“He’s kind of a frenemy,” said Sam.  
   
“He’s kind a jerk,” Dean returned. “And a demon.” He put the empty beer bottle down on the counter. “And the King of Hell.” He glanced down at the tug on his shirt. Isaiah handed his plate to him. “Oh, thanks, kiddo.” He watched as Isaiah gave a small smile, then trotted off back in the direction of the main room, no doubt to scatter more legos for Dean to step on.  
   
“I found a hunt,” Sam said, breaking the silence.  
   
Dean turned to him. “Oh yeah?”  
   
“Yeah.” Sam cleared his throat. “It looks like a salt and burn. About a day’s drive. Some town called Galesburg.”  
   
“Galesburg, where?” Dean asked, wrinkling his nose.  
   
“Illinois.”  
   
“Oh.” A beat. “Okay.”  
   
“Anyway,” Sam said, “I thought I could drive up there tomorrow—”  
   
“Wait,” Dean interrupted, “you mean alone?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “You’re kind of busy, I figured…”  
   
“Dude, no way.”  
   
“It’s just a salt and burn.”  
   
“When is it _ever_ just a salt and burn?” Dean turned to Castiel. “Do you hear this guy?”  
   
“Yes?” said Castiel.  
   
Dean gave him a look, then turned back to Sam. “We can leave tomorrow morning.”  
   
“Dean,” Sam said, “aren’t you kind of—I mean, a little busy to go on hunts?”  
   
“We’re hunters, Sam.” Dean picked up his beer bottle and tossed it into the recycling bin. It was getting kind of full. He’d have to bring the empty bottles to the store next time. “Hunting is what we do.”  
   
“Yeah, but,” Sam snuck a look at Castiel, who was watching them both with a blank expression. “What about the kid?”  
   
“We’re not bringing him, if that’s what you mean,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “He can stay here with Cas.”  
   
Sam’s jaw worked. “That’s not what I meant.”  
   
Castiel stepped forward. “I will stay with Isaiah,” he said.  
   
“But aren’t you two kind of…” Sam floundered, “…in this together?”  
   
His lips thinning, Dean said, a little sharply, “Sam, it’s fine. Cas is Isaiah’s dad. He’s perfectly capable of taking care of him. I’m going on the hunt.”  
   
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Fine,” he said shortly. He got up from the table, taking his beer. “I’ll start working on the case.”  
   
The other two watched him stride out of the kitchen. Dean shook his head. “Jesus, wonder what his problem is?”  
   
Castiel lifted his shoulders, but he caught Dean’s wrist when Dean made to exit the kitchen as well. “Dean?”  
   
“Yeah?” Dean swiveled back to look at him. He followed as Castiel tugged him back into the kitchen.  
   
“You will have to explain to Isaiah.” His face was serious. “That you’ll be gone for a few days, and then return.”  
   
“Yeah, I will.” Dean frowned. “I wasn’t planning on just vanishing.” He cracked a smile.  
   
For a moment, Castiel stood there, eyes searching Dean’s. Then, “Be careful.”  
   
“Cas, I’m always careful,” Dean tried to joke. It was a little harder to breath, Castiel standing so close to him. “You heard Sam. It’s just a ghost.”  
   
But Castiel shook his head. “If you find yourself in danger, I will not be able to come for you without risking Isaiah.”  
   
There was a weird lump in Dean’s throat. He swallowed it away. “I wouldn’t want you to.”  
   
There was a brief squeeze on his wrist, and then Castiel was stepping away again. “Be careful, Dean,” he said again. “I—Isaiah will need you to come back to him.”  
   
“I’ll be fine,” Dean said. He tried a smile again, tried not to make his next words sound too desperate. “You’ll be here?”  
   
“Of course.” Castiel tilted his head. “Isaiah has his painted room.”  
   
Dean sighed. “We’re never going to be able to get those stickers off the wall.”  
   
Small smile in place, Castiel crossed his arms. “I like them.”  
   
“You would,” Dean returned. He stepped towards the kitchen again. “We need some more rock salt shot, the box in the impala’s almost out.”  
   
“You left some down in the gun range.”  
   
“Yeah, that’s where I was going.”  
   
“You’ll speak to Isaiah?”  
   
“I said I would.” Dean took another step, then stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can, uh, call. Too. Keep you guys updated and stuff.”  
   
Castiel’s head bobbed. “Yes. Please.”  
   
“Okay.” Dean cleared his throat. “I’ll uh. Go get that shot then.”  
   
“Okay,” Castiel echoed.  
   
After another moment of neither of them moving, Dean found his feet again, and left.  
   
   
#  
   
   
Despite the superb memory foam mattress, he didn’t sleep well that night. Memories of Isaiah’s face when he’d said—trying to be gentle and play it off cool—“Sam and I are going on a trip. We need you to stay here and watch after Cas, okay?” drifted across his mind.  
   
Dean rolled over and punched the pillow, trying to fluff it. But when he lay back down again, his neck was still uncomfortable. Sweating, he shoved the covers down, but then five minutes later, he was too cold.  
   
Did Isaiah even _understand_ what Dean had been talking about? Or did he just get that Dean was leaving? He was only four. Maybe Dean should’ve tried to explain it better?  
   
He’d have to try again in the morning. Make sure he got that Dean was coming back. After all, _his_ dad left all the time, but he’d always come back. Eventually. Besides, Isaiah would be fine. He had Cas—his actual father, no less—to look after him.  
   
Eventually, Dean drifted off into an uneasy sleep.  
   
He was, of course, surly in the morning. Sam took one look at his face and handed him a steaming mug of coffee, which Dean tried to gulp and promptly burned his tongue on. When he attempted to blame it on Sam, all he got in return was a dissatisfying “That is so not my fault, dude.” Which Dean resolved to pay him back for. Somehow.  
   
He managed to conjure up a smile when Isaiah came down in his Star Wars pajamas (what, Dean had no impulse control when it came to Amazon, okay?) to wave a sleepy good-bye while balanced on Castiel’s hip.  
   
“Be good, kiddo,” Dean said, ruffling his hair. He looked at Cas. “Make sure he eats something that’s not Fruit Loops.”  
   
“Captain Crunch?”  
   
“Funny,” Dean told him. He hesitated, then reached up to clasp Castiel’s shoulder. “See you, Cas,” he said.  
   
Castiel’s eyes smiled at him. He hoisted Isaiah further up on his hip. “Be safe, Dean.”  
   
Sam honked the horn.  
   
“Can’t even let a guy have a moment,” Dean groused. He waved again, then headed towards the car.  
   
“Did you kiss him goodbye?” Sam asked, before Dean had even made it all the way inside.  
   
Dean raised a disdainful eyebrow. “You’re a weirdo in the morning, you know that?”  
   
“Yeah,” said Sam. “I’m the weird one in this family.” He put away the tattered atlas. “We’re taking highway thirty-six, by the way.”  
   
“You said it, not me.”  
   
“You’re an ass.”  
   
“Personal growth, Sammy,” Dean said, as they sped down the road. “It’s all about admitting these things to yourself.”  
   
Sam shot him a disbelieving look, and allowed his forehead to fall against the window.  
   
An eight-hour drive wasn’t the top of Dean’s list of favorites, but he’d had worse. Still, upon reaching Galesburg and stumbling into the cheapest roadside motel, Dean had the vague thought (mostly exacerbated by falling down on a bed full of springs), that he was getting too damned old for this.  
   
The feeling persisted through stale diner coffee and overdone eggs, and followed him through three interviews and a narrow brush with the _actual_ FBI, who apparently did do some ghostly side work, once in a blue moon. Who knew?  
   
“Do you ever feel like,” Dean said, as they dropped down from their hiding spot atop a convenient brick ledge, “we’re getting too old for this?” He brushed dirt and ivy from his shoulder, and received a sideway glance from Sam.  
   
“Uh, not really?” said Sam.  
   
Dean sighed.  
   
Under the pretense of going to the loud and obnoxiously green Irish pub across the street to get a drink, Dean slunk out of the motel room that evening to call Castiel without his nosy brother trying to eavesdrop on the conversation.  
   
Castiel picked up on the second ring.  
   
“Dean? How is the hunt?”  
   
Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. “The house is on a literal Native American burial ground,” he said. “I feel like such a cliché.”  
   
Castiel had the grace not to laugh at him. Either that, or he just didn’t get the joke.  
   
“Will you be all right?”  
   
Dean rubbed at his nose. “From what we’ve got, the most recent owners abandoned the place after the kitchen knives started flying, and were never able to sell it. We’re thinking of just burning the whole damn place to the ground and consecrating the ashes.”  
   
“I can look up some rituals for you if you’d like,” Castiel offered. But before Dean could answer, Castiel said, “Oh, wait for one moment, please.” There was the sound of shuffling, and then Dean heard Castiel’s voice say distantly, “No, Isaiah, you cannot have a snack now. Your dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”  
   
“What are you making?” Dean asked, when Castiel returned to the line. “And yeah, if you could find a ritual, that’d be great.”  
   
Castiel made a low noise in his throat. “I’m de-frosting that lasagna you froze last week,” he admitted.  
   
“Oh.” Dean didn’t know quite why that statement made his stomach feel warm, but whatever. “You can eat some too, if you want. Even though you don’t really need to,” Dean found himself saying.  
   
A moment, and then, “Yes,” Castiel said slowly. “I thought I might try some. Thank you, Dean.”  
   
Abruptly, Dean changed the subject. “So, aside from food, how are things going?”  
   
“Well as could be expected, I suppose,” Castiel said. “Today was not a very active day.”  
   
Immediately, Dean was on alert. “What? Why?”  
   
“Isaiah seemed tired. I don’t believe he slept well last night. He napped all afternoon.”  
   
Dean frowned. He leaned against the vending machine, feeling the hum of it beneath his fingertips. “Nightmares?”  
   
“I’m not sure. I will watch him tonight.”  
   
“Okay,” said Dean. “We should be back in a couple days at most. Maybe if you tell him that, it’ll cheer him up.”  
   
“I will then,” Castiel responded. He hesitated, then said, “Thank you for calling, Dean.”  
   
“Man,” Dean said, discomfited, “you’ve got to stop thanking me for every little thing. It’s weird.”  
   
“Is it?”  
   
“I mean…”  
   
“I see no reason why you should be embarrassed by my gratitude,” Castiel informed him. “So I will do no such thing.” There was a beeping noise in the background, and then Castiel said, “I believe the food is done. I will call you when I have found an appropriate consecration ritual.”  
   
“Um,” said Dean. “Okay, thanks.”  
   
There was a bit of faint clanging, and then Castiel said, “Isaiah is waving at the telephone. I believe he is attempting to greet you.”  
   
Before he could really stop it, Dean’s lips curled into a smile. “Tell him I say hi.”  
   
“Very well.” A brief pause, and then Dean heard Castiel’s voice faintly, “Dean says hello.” Another moment, and then, “If I do not hang up now, I fear the lasagna will be burned.”  
   
That time, Dean outright grinned. “Okay, Cas,” he said. “Later.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
There was a click, and then the dial tone. Dean shook his head and removed the phone from his ear. “Still need to work on that phone etiquette,” he muttered.  
   
He placed the phone back into the pocket of his jacket, and pushed off the vending machine, straightening his back with a creak he felt all the way down to his toes. Christ, that motel bed was murder. He hesitated, casting a glance in the direction of the pub across the street. There were flashy lights and some very loud music coming out the windows. It sounded like someone’s garage band was playing.  
   
Another moment, and Dean turned on his heel and headed back for the motel.  
   
Sam was lying on his bed, listening to some kind of hippie podcast when Dean walked in.  
   
“You have a good talk with Castiel?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow. A knowing smirk played around the corners of his mouth.  
   
“Oh, fuck you.” Dean flung himself onto his bed, and immediately regretted it when a spring dug straight into his kidneys.  
   
Sam paused whatever was on the computer. “I got a call from Jody,” he said.  
   
“Oh yeah?” Dean struggled upright. “What’s up with her?”  
   
“She told me she’s been scheming.”  
   
“Uh…”  
   
“Her words, not mine. Anyway, she wants to come down to the bunker for a weekend.”  
   
“Really?” Dean covered a yawn. “What for? She hunting something?”  
   
Sam’s mouth twisted. “I think she’s trying to get Claire to visit with Cas.”  
   
Dean let out an outright snort at that. “Ha ha,” he said. “Fat chance.”  
   
“Scheming,” Sam reminded him. “Anyway, she said she’ll call when they’re out the door.”  
   
“You tell her we’re on a hunt?”  
   
“Yeah, but she’s not driving down now, Dean. She’s trying for a weekend, to keep Claire from missing school.”  
   
Dean yawned again, turning over to tap at his pillow. The mattress creaked. “Well, I wish her the greatest of luck trying to convince Claire to have anything to do with Cas right now.”  
   
“I know.” Sam stuck his headphones back into his ears. “I told her we’d probably be back in a couple of days. Maybe she’ll get there when we do.”  
   
Dean groaned. “I’d tell Cas to go shopping but who knows what the hell he’d come back with?”  
   
“I don’t know.” Sam took out one earbud. “He’s gotten pretty good at that stuff lately.”  
   
“I guess he’s got a good reason.” Dean rolled onto his back, blinking up at the cracked ceiling. “Gotta be able to take care of the kid and all.”  
   
“He did try and go shopping for you that one time.” Sam’s voice was carefully neutral. Dean huffed out a laugh.  
   
“Yeah, that went well.”  
   
“To be fair,” Sam said, “that was his first attempt.” He took out his other earbud. “It’s kind of…nice that he’s been sticking around the bunker for a while.”  
   
“It’s a good place to hide your half-human, half-angel kid from all of Heaven,” Dean agreed. “Roof, sigils, lots of guns…”  
   
“I don’t think that’s the only reason he’s staying,” Sam said, a little sharply.  
   
“Hmm,” said Dean.  
   
“I think he might be planning to stick around this time. At least for a while.”  
   
“He’s always _planning_ to stick around,” Dean said, voice derisive. “And then something comes up. That’s Cas.”  
   
“I don’t know.” Sam examined his fingertips, nails ragged from their climb up to the brick ledge. “He’s kind of been, uh, nesting. He even has a room.”  
   
“He’s always had a room.”  
   
“But he puts stuff in it now.”  
   
“Sam,” Dean sighed. He sat up, wrinkling the tired floral of the bedspread. “Just what are you trying to get at, here?”  
   
“I—” said Sam, but he was relieved from having to answer by the ring of Dean’s cell phone.  
   
Dean picked it up, but with a glare that assured Sam that they would be resuming the conversation at another time.  
   
“Dean?”  
   
“Hey, Cas.” Dean relaxed back against the headboard. He gave a grinning Sam the finger. “What’s going on?”  
   
Castiel’s voice sounded a bit fuzzy, but then he said, “While Isaiah has been eating, I had the chance to look up a consecration ritual for you.”  
   
“Oh. Wow, uh. Wow, Cas. That was fast.” Dean blinked. “Does he like the lasagna?”  
   
“He’s eating it.”  
   
“I’ll take that as a yes.”  
   
“Cas heated up your lasagna?” Sam was frowning a little. “I wanted to eat that when we got back.”  
   
“I’ll make another one for you, bitch,” Dean said, eyes rolling. “No, not you, Cas. Sam’s being a whiny—uh, yeah, I’ve got a pen.” He lunged across the bed to pick up a cheap ballpoint from the bedside table. “Okay, shoot.” A beat. “No, I mean, tell me the ritual.” He listened for a moment. “Okay. Okay. Okay—do they all have to be from the same rock? Really? Huh, who’d of thought that would matter, but okay. Okay. Five pounds of sage? Jesus.”  
   
“Is this for the case?” Sam had turned off his podcast again, and was now listening attentively, eyebrows inching higher with every word.  
   
“…Four crow feathers, eight pieces of obsidian—preferably broken from the same main piece, a teaspoon of chili powder, and five pounds of sage. And salt. And a lighter. Got it.”  
   
On the other line, Castiel cleared his throat. “There is also an inscription for you to recite.”  
    
“Okay. What is it?”  
   
“Do you still have the pen?”  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“All right.” There was the background noise of paper shuffling, along with the banging of what could have been a spoon on a plate or a table, and then Castiel began to recite an unfamiliar language in low, even tones. It was nice to listen to, but completely unintelligible as far as Dean was concerned. About halfway through, Dean stopped him.  
   
“Uh, Cas?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“I think you’re going to have to text me this part.”  
   
“It’s really very simple, Dean.”  
   
“Cas.”  
   
There was a put-upon exhale. “Very well.”  
   
“Thanks, Cas.”  
   
A pause. “You’re welcome, Dean.”  
   
“Talk to you—” the dial tone sounded, “—and he hangs up.” Dean let out a breath, shaking his head. He examined the list in his hand, then turned to Sam. “Think we’ll be able to round these up by tomorrow evening?”  
   
“Only if you’re plucking the crow.”  
   
Dean sneered at him. “Very funny.”  
   
“I wasn’t trying to be.”  
   
“We can torch the place tomorrow night, consecrate it, and be on our way.”  
   
“Sounds foolproof,” said Sam. He put in his earbuds again, and returned his focus to the laptop screen.  
   
Dean stuck his tongue out at him. “Oh yeah, ‘foolproof’,” he grumbled. “Sure. Just go ahead and jinx the whole thing. Asshole.” He looked down at the list again, then made a face. “And where the hell are we going to get five pounds of sage?”  
   
   
#  
   
   
Despite how many times he’d desecrated graves to salt and burn the inhabitants, Dean always disliked it when, devoid of any other option, they were forced to burn down an entire house.  
   
Sam chalked it up to early childhood trauma. Dean chalked it up to that fact that it would suck to get arrested for arson.  
   
This was why, despite what Sam had scathingly judged to be second—maybe even third—degree burns covering a disproportionate part of his left forearm, Dean was driving straight west like a bat out of hell, never mind things like “first aid” and “hospitals” and “Jesus, Dean, your skin is turning _white_!”  
   
“It’ll be fine,” Dean grit out, while spots danced in front of his eyes. “Cas can fix it.”  
   
“At least let me drive,” pleaded Sam, watching as his brother swayed in the front seat.  
   
Truthfully, it was only the thought that they might crash and he’d be forced to interact with a bunch of dick angels that caused Dean to slow down and stop on the side of the road.  
   
“Move over.” Sam quickly got out and came around to the driver’s seat, while Dean dragged himself towards the passenger side.  
   
“Ow!”  
   
“Sorry, sorry,” Sam said, as he strapped himself in and stepped on the gas.  
   
“We should probably not go back to that town for a while,” Dean said, after about ten minutes.  
   
Sam nodded fervently. “Or ever.”  
   
And that was about the point where Dean fell asleep. Or, you know. Passed out.  
   
Dean spent most of the ride like that, only waking to try and put more damp bandages on his arm, and down ibuprofen like popcorn. Sam meanwhile, drove straight through the night, which meant that they finally got to the bunker around nine in the morning.  
   
“Come on, Dean,” Sam said. He hovered his hand above Dean’s shoulder, wary of touching, then gave up and shook Dean’s knee. “We’re here.”  
   
“What?” Dan jolted awake, then immediately let out a pained hiss as his arm bumped into the seatback. He made to get out of the car, then stopped. “Could you get Cas and bring him here?” he managed.  
   
“What? Why?”  
   
Dean grit his teeth. “I don’t want Isaiah to see this. I don’t want him to see me like this.”  
   
Sam stared at him for a long moment, then with a wordless nod, went inside. As soon as he was gone, Dean let out a groan, leaning his head back against the window.  
   
Scarcely five minutes later, and Castiel was sliding out from the doorway and hurrying over to the impala. Dean shifted so that Castiel could open the door.  
   
“Heya, Cas,” he rasped.  
   
“Let me see it,” Castiel demanded. His mouth was tight, and there was a worried furrow in his brow. “Dean, let me see it.”  
   
“Yeah, here, here.” Dean bit his lip as he peeled back the bandage.  
   
Castiel stared down at the wound, then back up again accusingly. “Dean! Why didn’t you go to the hospital?”  
   
“Didn’t wanna get arrested,” Dean slurred. “Hurts, Cas.”  
   
“It should!” Cas snapped. But contradictory to the sharpness of his voice, his hand was gentle as he laid it on Dean’s arm. A soft white glow began to emit from his palm.  
   
“You don’t usually heal like that,” Dean observed, muscles in his shoulders relaxing as the throbbing pain in his arm began to recede.  
   
“I don’t have the backing of Heaven to heal you,” Castiel answered distractedly. He took a steadying breath, still laser-focused on Dean’s arm. “This is only my grace.” He glanced up for a brief second, apologetic half-smile in place. “It takes longer.”  
   
“It’s just you?” Dean was feeling decidedly loopy now. He wondered if it was Cas healing him, or just the sudden lack of pain. “I don’t mind.”  
   
“It is less efficient.” The glow was fading now. Castiel rocked back on his heels, looking tired and sweaty.  
   
“Whoa, Cas.” Dean gripped his shoulder, stopping him from toppling over all the way.  
   
“I’m fine.” Castiel was breathing harshly now. He regained his balance and stood, leaning against the car. “How is your arm?”  
   
Dean looked at it. “It’s fine,” he said, flexing it. It did still look a little red, but it didn’t hurt at least. Kind of like a mild sunburn. “Thanks.”  
   
“That is as much as I can do for now,” Castiel said. He straightened. “When my grace replenishes, I will heal it the rest of the way.”  
   
“It’s fine, Cas.” Dean finally got out the car. He stretched, rotating his neck. It was sore from sleeping against the window, but when Castiel reached out his hand, Dean batted it away. “No, Cas, it’s fine. Now it looks like _you_ were the one who just got back from the hunt.”  
   
“Healing is both limited and very draining without the will of Heaven,” Castiel sighed, shoulders slumping a little. He scowled at Dean. “You should be more careful.”  
   
Dean poked Castiel’s forehead, digging at the wrinkles between his eyebrows. “Were you worried about me?”  
   
Castiel stared cross-eyed at Dean’s finger for a second, before brushing it away. “I’m always worried about you,” he replied, deadpan.  
   
Dean began to crack a smile, then realized that Castiel wasn’t smiling. “Wait, are you serious?”  
   
He received an exasperated look in return. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  
   
“Because…” Dean trailed off. He rubbed the back of his neck. “What for?” he said weakly.  
   
“Would you like me to list alphabetically or chronologically?” Their faces were close now, noses almost touching. Castiel arched an eyebrow at him. Dean pursed his lips.  
   
“That’s not very fair,” he complained. “I have reasons to worry about you, too, you know.”  
   
That time, Castiel did smile at him, like he knew Dean was trying to be polite.  
   
“I do!” Dean said, now irrationally annoyed. “I mean, there’s the basic stuff, like _did he get lost in the supermarket again_ , or _I hope he brought money to pay for that_ —”  
   
“In my defense, that store was shaped like a square but had six different exits and only two of them were functional,” Castiel put in, peeved.  
   
“But then of course, there’s the big guns, like— _is he playing hooky or did he get captured again?_ And _will his dick family decide to drag him home for some stupid shit?_ And also—”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said softly. He put a hand on Dean’s mouth to stave off more words. “You worry that much for me?”  
   
Dean shuffled his feet, looking away, then back up at Cas, then at the ground again. “Uh.”  
   
Castiel’s hand rotated to Dean’s cheek. Not pinching or anything weird, just resting there. Almost like a caress. “You are truly a remarkable human being.”  
   
Dean promptly turned bright red. He would’ve pulled away, but something about Castiel’s light touch made him pause. “I—you too, Cas,” he said instead. “You know. For an angel.”  
   
The corners of Castiel’s eyes crinkled. Their gazes caught and locked.  
   
After another moment, Castiel’s smile began to fade, replaced by something different. Something that made Dean’s feet root to the floor as though welded there. He swallowed.  
   
“Um.”  
   
“Quiet,” Castiel murmured, as he leaned in. “You’re never quiet when I request it.”  
   
The kiss was soft, gentle, a barely-there brush of lips and then it was gone. Dean opened eyes he hadn’t even realized had closed. He couldn’t resist reaching his hand up to touch his lips.  
   
“Cas?”  
   
There was a high blush in Castiel’s cheeks, his breath came a little faster than usual, but he lifted his chin. “You are remarkable, Dean,” he said. “Do not forget that.”  
   
Dean gaped at him.  
   
A banging from the door caused them to jump apart, just as Sam bellowed, “Dean, we’re coming outside whether you’re healed or not!”  
   
“We will speak later,” Castiel told him. Dean couldn’t do much more than gulp before the door was knocked open and a small blur slammed into his legs.  
   
Automatically, Dean’s arms went around Isaiah’s back. Clearing his throat, he said, “Hey, kiddo. You miss me?”  
   
Isaiah peered up, expression wide and grinning. He bobbed his head enthusiastically. Dean put a hand on top of his head, brushing back his hair.  
   
“Me too, kid,” he said, throat oddly tight. “Me too.”


	7. Chapter 7

Isaiah would not settle.  
   
So apparently thrilled was he to have Dean back, he zoomed around and around the bunker like a kid possessed, showing off the pictures he’d drawn, some kind of beaded creation, and what Dean sincerely hoped was a play-doh sculpture. He barely managed to eat half his lunch before he was out of his chair again, Castiel’s chastisements be damned.  
   
Sam, claiming exhaustion from driving all night, made his escape at that point, leaving Dean to figure out a way to work off Isaiah’s excess energy before everything breakable in the bunker tumbled down around their ears.  
   
After a quick assessment of his options, he found four buckets, briefly repossessed Isaiah’s soccer ball, and dragged the kid to the meadow behind the bunker. He then proceeded to set up a rough approximation of a soccer field, and chase Isaiah into submission, while Castiel watched from the sidelines.  
   
Twenty minutes in, Dean half-jogged, half-walked up to Castiel, Isaiah still dancing excitedly around his legs, and said, “Okay, your turn.”  
   
Castiel cocked his head. “I believe he wants to play with you. Not me.”  
   
Dean let out a rather pathetic groan. “Cas!”  
   
“Have fun,” Castiel said serenely.  
   
Dean seethed, then hung his head when there was a tug on his shirt. “You’ll regret this,” Dean threatened, even as he allowed Isaiah to lead him away.  
   
“Of course, Dean,” Castiel said, not even bothering to look up from his perusal of the patch of clover on his right.  
   
In the end, it took a full forty minutes before Isaiah collapsed in a heap on the grass next to Castiel. Still breathing hard, Dean slid down to join them, nearly squashing Castiel’s impressive collection of daisy chains. Isaiah promptly moved into Dean’s lap, and leaned back against his chest. Dean stole a daisy chain and set it on top of Isaiah’s head. Isaiah made one of his quiet, wheezy giggles, and removed it, placing it on Castiel’s head instead. Dean snickered. Castiel blinked at them both, then adjusted the crown so that it sat properly.  
   
They lazed for a while in the quiet of the mid-afternoon sun. Dean tilted his head back, enjoying the warmth on his face, the cool grass tickling his arms. Castiel’s hand was touching his, but Dean was too relaxed to worry about it for the moment.  
   
“I think he’s asleep,” Castiel said quietly, as he finished a daisy necklace to go with his daisy crown.  
   
Dean peered down at the boy in his lap and indeed, he was drowsing, hand flexed in the material of Dean’s t-shirt.  
   
“Finally,” he said, keeping his voice low. Castiel chuckled.  
   
“He appeared very pleased to see you.”  
   
“I could’ve done with a bit less pleasure,” Dean said.  
   
Castiel cocked his head. “He loves you.”  
   
Dean snorted. “He doesn’t know any better.”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel’s voice, and the hand on his shoulder, was full of rebuke. Dean shrugged uncomfortably.  
   
“It’s true,” he pointed out. “He doesn’t know the—” he faltered, “—the jobs that I do. What I’ve done.”  
   
Castiel got to his feet and stepped around so that he was standing in front of Dean. He bent down, peering into Dean’s face. “Isaiah knows you,” he said, matter-of-fact. He put his hand on Dean’s shoulder again, and leaned in.  “He knows your soul.” And before Dean could react, Castiel was brushing his lips against Dean’s forehead. Castiel squeezed at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder and planted a soft one right on his mouth, a brief exchange of air.  
   
“We both know your soul,” Castiel told him, when they separated. He considered Dean’s slack mouth and bugged out eyes for a moment, then held out his arms. “I will take him to bed.”  
   
Dean found his voice again, though it was a bit higher than his usual. “N—no, no. I’ve got him.” To prove it, he stood, carefully cradling Isaiah in his arms.  
   
A small smile on his face, Castiel dropped his hands to his sides. He brushed Isaiah’s hair back off of his forehead. Scooping up the soccer ball at their feet, he began to lead the way back to the bunker.  
   
Dean hadn’t been in Isaiah’s room since he’d gone on the hunt, but it had been less than a week, so he hadn’t really expected it to change all that much. That’s why, as soon as he stepped inside, he stopped, mouth falling open.  
   
“I thought,” Castiel said, noticing where Dean was looking, “he is a child of the heavens, as much as of the earth. It seemed fitting.”  
   
“Dude,” Dean said. “This is awesome.” He laid Isaiah down on his bed and tilted his head back. “Are these the actual constellations or what?”  
   
“A close approximation.” Castiel came forward, helping Dean settle the coverlet over Isaiah, touching his rosy cheek with the back of his hand. “There were many glow-in-the-dark materials available—I just attempted to place the stars in the orders that I…” he let out a breath. “That I remembered.”  
   
“It looks awesome, Cas.” Dean turned around. “Oh,” he said, eyebrows drawing together, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Don’t let Sam see this though, or he’ll probably want one for his own room.”  
   
“I’ll be sure to be discreet,” Castiel offered dryly, as he flicked off the light. They shut the door most of the way, though left it open a crack so that light could stream in from the hallway.  
   
“How’s he been sleeping?” Dean asked, as they walked back down.  
   
“Poorly.” Castiel shook his head. “I stayed with him in the night, but he appeared to suffer no nightmares. I’m not entirely sure what the issue is.”  
   
“Sam just thinks it’s the newness of everything.”  
   
“It’s been several weeks. I don’t see why it would start now.”  
   
“You got me.” They turned a corner, passing Sam’s room, and nearing Dean’s.  
   
“How long does he tend to nap for?”  
   
“An hour.” Castiel stopped so suddenly that Dean nearly tripped over him. “That should be enough time.”  
   
“Should be enough time to— _mgmph!_ ” Dean said in surprise, as he was manhandled against the wall. He opened his mouth. “Cas—”  
   
This time the kiss was furious, like Castiel had been watching that stupid pizza-man video on replay. Dean’s head swam under the attack. When Castiel finally let up, Dean pushed weakly at his chest.  
   
“Dude!” he said, “What is—what—?”  
   
Castiel cocked his head.  
   
“What are you _doing_?” Dean finally managed.  
   
“Kissing you,” Castiel informed him, like that part wasn’t totally obvious. He made a move to lean in again, but this time, Dean squirmed enough to get a hand out to stop him.  
   
“Yeah, Cas, I freakin’ noticed that part,” he said. “The question was more: _why are you kissing me?”_  
   
He received a frown for that. “Because I wish to.” Castiel moved back a pace, crossing his arms. “I think I’ve been on earth long enough to understand how one human shows affection for another.”  
   
Dean stared at him. “Uh. Like— _affection_ , affection? Or—?”  
   
Castiel swayed towards him, breath warm on Dean’s face. “I have great affection for you, Dean,” he said.  
   
“But…” Dean struggled, a thousand questions flashing through his mind. He settled on the most obvious. “But what the hell, man?”  
   
“I don’t understand.”  
   
“You—” Dean said. “But.” He took a steadying breath. Castiel watched him quizzically. He willed himself to speak calmly. “This is very sudden.”  
   
Castiel gave him a penetrating look. Dean tried not to shrink back at the intensity of it. “It is not sudden,” he said. “Do you not recall how we met? How I cradled your bruised and broken soul, brought you up from the depths of Hell?” He crowded Dean against the wall. “The affection I hold for you burned down the very pillars that held Heaven together. I fell for you. I died for you.” He claimed Dean’s mouth again, then pulled away, and leaned his forehead against Dean’s. “I killed for you.”  
   
Dean’s breath hitched. “You never said anything.”  
   
“It was never the right time.”  
   
His lips throbbing, Dean managed a tentative, “How long?”  
   
“I don’t know.”  
   
“Cas…” Dean’s throat was tight. “Why are you telling me this now?”  
   
Castiel lifted his head. “I thought to protect myself from you,” he said bluntly. “You are fickle with your body, Dean, and stingy with your soul.”  
   
A little offended, Dean opened his mouth to argue the point. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he shut it again.  
   
“I did not want to demand more than you were willing to give,” Castiel said.  
   
“Then…all that stuff today?”  
   
“There is the child to consider.”  
   
Dean’s heart began to beat faster. “Are you going to take him away?”  
   
Castiel gave him a puzzled look. “No,” he said. “But I see the affection you hold for him—my flesh and blood and grace. And I thought, perhaps.” Castiel ducked his head. “I thought that if you made room for him, there might also be room for…for me.”  
   
For a very long moment, Dean simply looked at him.  
   
Castiel began, “I apologize if I have been too forward. Your injury today unnerved me and I thought—”  
   
But Dean was already interrupting him. “Cas, man, how could you think that?”  
   
At his words, Castiel looked stricken. He began to turn away. Dean wrenched him back around.  
   
“There’s always been a place for you,” he said hotly. “Didn’t you get that this morning? Do you have any idea the kind of shit I’ve gone through to get your ass—feathered or not—back here and alive?”  
   
Castiel swallowed.  
   
“I mean, come on!” Dean said. “The apocalypse? Purgatory?” He seemed to notice at the exact same moment as Castiel that he was gripping Castiel’s arm rather tightly. He slowly let go, tucking his hand into his pocket, shuffling his feet. “It’s just,” he said. “The kissing thing kind of caught me off guard.”  
   
Castiel nodded, a look of understanding dawning in his eyes. “You do not want to kiss me.”  
   
Dean choked a little. “No,” he said. “I mean,” he scrubbed at his face, “that’s not what I’m saying. I just—I never really thought about it before.”  
   
Castiel regarded him calmly, eyebrows raised. Dean flushed.  
   
“Okay, fine,” he snapped. “Maybe a couple times, but not—not seriously, you know?”  
   
The lines in Castiel’s forehead deepened. “Why?”  
   
“Man,” Dean said. “I don’t—don’t get me wrong here, I mean.” He blew out air. “I just,” he said helplessly.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said. “You are my family. You are my son’s family. Your brother is my brother.” He stepped closer. “I hold no one in the universe to the same regard that I hold you.” He touched Dean’s cheek. “May I kiss you?”  
   
Dean’s eyes squeezed shut. “Okay,” he whispered.  
   
This time, there was little of Castiel’s earlier roughness. The kiss started out soft, like a replay of the morning. But when Dean, his mouth already sensitized, made a noise of surprise, Castiel deepened the kiss. His hands dropped down and curled around Dean’s wrists, and Dean’s back hit the wall again. He found himself making a low, whimpering sound in the back of his throat.  
   
“Was that,” Castiel panted, as he drew away, “acceptable?”  
   
Unable to really articulate anything at just that moment, Dean swallowed. But when Castiel leaned in again, he accepted it, even opened his mouth to let Castiel in, as what felt like all the blood in his body began to rush south.  
   
At Castiel’s next attempt however, Dean turned his face away.  
   
“Dean?” Castiel questioned. His mouth was pinched in concern, but he did not resist when Dean pushed at his chest, instead moving back to give him more space.   
   
“Too much,” Dean said. He licked his lips. “I mean,” he said. “It’s kind of a lot, this—thing. I need some time to, you know.” He gestured vaguely. “Think.”  
   
Castiel linked his hands behind his back, and moved back even further. “I will wait,” he said. The corners of his eyes creased. “It is nothing new.”  
   
Dean huffed. “Okay, well, now you’re making me feel bad.”  
   
Castiel lifted his shoulders. “My affection for you is not predicated on sex, Dean,” he said, voice mildly chiding. “You know that.”  
   
“Up until this morning, I didn’t even know sex was in the equation,” Dean muttered. “Jesus.” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a big line we’ve just crossed, Cas,” he said. “What you told me…give me some time to think about it.”  
   
That time, Castiel inclined his head. “Of course.”  
   
They looked at each other. “Then, I’ll just—” Dean said, awkwardly attempting to slide out from between Castiel’s body and the wall, while Castiel just stood there, exactly as moveable as Mt. Everest. He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said, watching him.  
   
Dean opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “I’m going to go start on dinner.”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel repeated. “I will, um.” He floundered for a moment, then his eyes lit up. “I will check on Isaiah,” he said decisively.  
   
Dean felt a twinge of relief. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, you, uh. You do that. I’m going to, uh.” He pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “Food.”  
   
Castiel was still not moving. “Okay.”  
   
Dean didn’t exactly run away, but his gait was quite a bit quicker and stiffer than usual. As soon as he was out of Castiel’s line of sight, he slumped against the nearest wall, trying to calm his pounding heart, putting a hand to his head.  
   
“What the fuck just happened?” he said out loud.  
   
“Uh, dude?” Sam said, coming around the corner and nearly colliding with him. “You okay?”  
   
Dean yelped, shooting upright. Sam stared. “Fine, fine!” Dean said hurriedly. He cleared his throat. “I was just—on my way to the kitchen.” He plastered on his best fake grin. “Dinner, you know.”  
   
“Uh, okay?” Sam was still eyeing him, clutching what looked like a Latin tome. “I, uh, was coming to show Cas this thing I found in the library—have you seen him around?”  
   
“Um,” Dean said, trying not to hyperventilate too noticeably. “I think he was, uh. Putting the kid down for a nap. Maybe, uh, maybe check there?”  
   
Sam stepped closer. “Dude, are you sure you’re feeling all right? You look kind of flushed. Did Cas not heal your arm all the way?”  
   
“Cas’s healing was fine. I’m fine. I’m just very hungry and so that is why I am, um, going to the kitchen. Hungry, but otherwise okay. Peachy.” Dean sucked in a breath. “Anything else?”  
   
Eyebrows suspicious, Sam said, “No, no. I think I’ll just go show this to Cas.”  
   
“Awesome.” Dean smiled tightly. “See you.”  
   
“Well, yeah, we live togeth—uh, Dean?”  
   
But Dean had already hightailed it out of there. Sam stood still for a moment, then shrugged and continued on his way.  
   
Even the kitchen failed to calm Dean’s nerves. He opened up the cutlery drawer and stared at his selection of chef knives and spatulas, but it didn’t really have the soothing effect he was looking for. He closed the drawer, and went to the refrigerator instead. They still had some chicken breasts that Sam had snuck into the cart and that he’d been avoiding cooking, but even that wouldn’t take much longer than an hour or so to prepare—and it was barely four o’clock.  
   
It really was a bit early to start on dinner, but no way in hell was Dean going to go back out there, with a Castiel ready to pounce at any given moment. That didn’t mean he couldn’t do something else though. He figured he was too scattered to properly focus on a pie crust, so he pulled out the cocoa powder, the chocolate chips, and the butter, and set himself to making the fudgiest goddamn brownies in existence.  
   
Did they have ice cream? Confronted with an empty freezer, Dean gnawed on his lower lip.  
   
Maybe he’d make Sam go to the store.  
   
Soon enough, the enticing smell of chocolate was beginning to waft out of the kitchen. It drew Sam in almost immediately, who proceeded to steal the scraps of batter left in the mixing bowl, and who was almost as quickly thrown out again, with orders to go pick up some ice cream, vanilla this time, goddamn it.  
   
It was later, when the brownies were cooling on the counter and Dean was chopping onions, that Castiel showed up, a half-asleep Isaiah balanced on his hip.  
   
“Oh, are those brownies?” Castiel asked, as he reached out.  
   
“No touchy.” Dean swatted his hand with a spoon. Castiel pulled back, looking injured. “Those are for after dinner.”  
   
“Such a stickler,” Sam commented, walking back into the room with a plastic bag.  
   
“Did you get my ice cream?”  
   
“I actually got some sorbet.”  
   
Dean glared at him. “I hope you’re kidding.”  
   
Sam snickered, then pulled the vanilla ice cream out of the bag. “Here.”  
   
“Asshole,” Dean muttered. His back turned, he didn’t see Castiel’s hand dart in towards the brownies until it was too late.  
   
“Mmm, these are quite good,” Castiel commented, as Dean whirled around.  
   
“Cas!”  
   
“Isaiah likes them too.”  
   
Dean glanced at Isaiah’s face, his mouth now smeared with chocolate. He was a great deal more awake now, grinning, and squirming to be let down. Castiel looked entirely too pleased with himself.  
   
“You’re going to ruin his appetite,” Dean mourned.  
   
In response, Castiel caught Dean’s gaze, and licked the chocolate rim around his lips. Dean gulped.  
   
“Hey, these are pretty good,” said Sam from behind. Dean made a noise of frustration, and pointed to the door.  
   
“Out!” he said. “All of you, out of my kitchen!”  
   
“Tyrant,” Sam told him, as the three of them trooped towards the exit. “Come on, Cas.”  
   
As they left the room, Dean let out a short exhale. He stretched out his arms and cracked his neck from side to side. Grumbling, he returned to chop the onions with more force, pushing them into the pan with vigor.  
   
It wasn’t like Castiel wasn’t nice-looking, Dean thought to himself, as he checked the temperature of the oven and shoved the pan inside. Even when he looked like shit and his clothes were scorched and filled with holes, he still got comments from everyone from witnesses in cases to the freaking top brass of Hell. But that did not mean that Dean wanted to kiss him.  
   
Even if, as it appeared, he was fairly good at it.  
   
No. Cas was his friend. His best friend. The one he loved. Like a brother. And would do anything for. Exactly like a brother. And who kissed…hopefully not like a brother at all. Gross. Dean shuddered.  
   
That settled it, Dean decided, as he washed his hands and transferred the cooled brownies to a plate. He’d just have to explain to Cas that he was fine with things the way they were, and that he definitely didn’t want him or Isaiah to go anywhere, no, but Dean’s feelings in this regard were totally and completely platonic.  
   
Besides, at this point in his life, Dean figured that his chances of finding a cute woman, who was also willing to set up shop with him and build the apple pie life in a secret underground bunker with his brother and his best friend, were just about zero. So, Dean thought, why not encourage Cas to continue playing house with them? Isaiah was safe, Castiel was safe and, more importantly, _present and accounted for_ , and everything was great and homey and rainbows and unicorns.  
   
Except, maybe without the rainbows part.  
   
These thoughts were very comforting to Dean all through dinner, which he served proudly wearing a pink, _kiss the cook_ apron that Sam had got him as a joke and that Dean wore as a general _fuck you, Sam_. When dinner was over and done with, they all beached on the couch like a bunch of misdirected whales to watch Star Wars. So distracted was he, what with watching Castiel’s and Isaiah’s expressions mirror each other at all the good parts, Dean even managed to put the whole thing out of his mind.  
   
That lasted up until the end of The Empire Strikes Back, when Dean volunteered to give Castiel a break from child wrangling and give Isaiah a bath, and Castiel insisted on coming with them anyway.  
   
The bath itself was as uneventful as these things go, and so were the ablutions afterward, though what the kid had against wearing pajamas that actually freaking matched, was anyone’s guess.  
   
It was only after Isaiah was sent off to bug Sam into putting on Return of the Jedi, that Castiel pulled Dean to a stop with a tug on his sleeve.  
   
“Have you thought?” he asked. “About where we will go from here?”  
   
Dean’s pulse immediately skyrocketed. “Um,” he said, very eloquently.  
   
Castiel’s eyes searched his face. “Or do you need more…time?”  
   
“Um.” Was it hot in here? Dean wondered, as sweat broke out on his forehead. It would make sense, he reasoned. Whatever climate control the MOL had was at least a century old—  
   
“Dean?” Castiel was looking a bit concerned now.  
   
Dean cleared his throat. “I, uh,” he said. “Yeah.”  
   
Castiel was still eyeing him. “Yeah?” he ventured.  
   
And in complete honesty, what Dean meant to say was something along the lines of, ‘Yeah, man, you and the kid are great and should live here with me forever but also no homo, okay?’ only phrased better. But then he caught a glimpse of Castiel’s face and he just looked so damn hopeful that all Dean could manage was a very squeaky, “YesIjustneedmoretime.”  
   
Castiel peered at him. “I’m sorry?”  
   
“I just,” said Dean, cursing himself a little. “More time, please.”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel blinked. “Yes, of course. As much time as you need.” He nodded. “This would, after all, be a very big step.”  
   
“Yeah,” said Dean, his insides now squirming.  
   
“A lot of change for you,” Castiel continued.  
   
“Uh huh.”  
   
“Life would never be the same—”  
   
“Yeah, Cas, I got that part.”  
   
A small smile playing around his lips, Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I just want to be sure.”  
   
Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “Come on. Let’s go see if Sam’s turned on the movie.”  
   
Cas outright grinned, and Dean’s stomach did an odd flip-flop. “That one is my favorite.”  
   
“I know it’s your favorite, you dweeb,” Dean sighed. “Even though Empire is better,” he added.  
   
He was favored with a disdainful sniff. “The Empire Strikes Back does not have ewoks.”  
   
Shuddering, Dean said, “Exactly, dude.”  
   
“I like them.”  
   
“I’m well aware.”  
   
As they entered the main room again, Dean was treated to the sight of Sam and Isaiah, the latter sprawled over the former, both of their gazes fixed avidly on the screen. With a grin, Dean pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. He then sat down on the couch next to Castiel, figuring that they only had about forty minutes before Isaiah fell asleep anyway, no point in hauling him away now.  
   
And, true to form, Yoda was barely in his grave before Sam was shooting him pitiful, please rescue me looks.  
   
Dean’s gaze shifted left, over to his fellow couch dweller. Castiel was leaning towards the television, hands clenched around his knees, completely immersed in the movie. Dean turned back to Sam, who gave him a significant look.  
   
With an exhale, Dean got to his feet and went over to his brother. Noticing his direction of movement, Castiel started to stand as well, but Dean waved him down.  
   
“It’s fine,” he said quietly, gathering Isaiah to him. Isaiah made a slight noise of discontent, and hid his face in Dean’s neck. “I’ll be right back.”  
   
There was a moment of clear indecision on Castiel’s part, and then he nodded and relaxed back into the cushions. Satisfied, Dean began the trek back to Isaiah’s room. In between the time it took for Dean to actually get there, an already mostly-asleep Isaiah had lapsed back into dreamland, and Dean had little trouble putting him to bed. He didn’t even bother to switch on the lights, but made sure to leave the door cracked open a bit, just like before, as he made his way back to the television.  
   
He nearly ran straight into Sam on his way back, who had clearly taken his newfound freedom to heart, and was heading to bed himself.  
   
“Night, nerd,” said Dean.  
   
Sam stuck out his tongue in a very adult and mature fashion, and Dean responded by crossing his eyes as he passed him  
   
Nearing the doorway, Dean could still hear the television playing, which he assumed meant that Castiel was still watching the movie. Dean hesitated. Without Sam around to play the ignorant buffer, Castiel very well might want to _talk_ some more.  
   
On the other hand, Dean reasoned, Castiel really liked this movie. He probably hadn’t even noticed that Sam had left. And besides—Dean really wanted another brownie.  
   
He detoured by the kitchen, collecting a couple brownies on a plate, and then headed back for where he’d left Castiel on the couch. He was right on time to catch the triumphant call of an ewok in full battle regalia.  
   
Rolling his eyes, Dean slid onto the couch. He snagged a brownie for himself, and passed the plate over to Castiel, who took one with a murmur of thanks.  
   
They watched in silence for a while. Despite himself, Dean felt his eyelids continually fluttering shut. To be fair, it had been a pretty long day. But, Dean thought, with a sidelong glance at Castiel, it’d be shitty to leave Cas to finish the movie alone. Besides, there were barely twenty minutes left. He’d be fine.  
   
Dean was so focused on his own resolve not to fall asleep, that he was honestly taken by surprise when Castiel yawned next. Dean turned to look at him.  
   
“You okay there, hot stuff?”  
   
“I’m—” Castiel caught another yawn. “I’m fine. Just tired.”  
   
Giving him a significant stare, Dean said, “That’s kind of what I meant.”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel shook his head. “I’m just drained from the healing this morning.” He yawned for a third time, and said, with some surprise, “I may actually sleep tonight.”  
   
“So miracles do happen,” said Dean.  
   
Castiel graced him with an unimpressed look. “I want to finish the movie.”  
   
“It never crossed my mind that you wouldn’t.”  
   
Luke was getting his butt kicked on screen. Idly, Dean wondered if there might be some sort of Men of Letters equivalent of a light saber hiding in their basement. Technology was basically magic, right?  
   
“Did Isaiah go to bed all right?”  
   
“Sure.” Dean stretched out a little. “Out like a light.”  
   
“Of course he does that for _you_ ,” Castiel muttered. Dean grinned.  
   
“The trials of parenthood getting to you?”  
   
“I don’t understand why he is always wanting water,” Castiel grumbled. “He’ll barely drink anything all day and then as soon as I want him to go to sleep, water is all he cares for.”  
   
“I told you Sam used to do that too. He’ll grow out of it.”  
   
“That’s not helpful in the short term, Dean.”  
   
“I’m just impressed that he can ask you for it,” Dean said. “What, with the no talking thing and all.”  
   
“He has a cup by his bedside that he points to.”  
   
“Well, then.” Dean waved his hand. “Just take away the cup. Problem solved.”  
   
“Dean!” Castiel’s voice was incredulous. “I wouldn’t want him to go thirsty.”  
   
“Then make him drink more during the day.”  
   
“He refuses.” Castiel scowled. “It’s irrational.”  
   
Dean shrugged. “Children are irrational. You’ve just got to know how to handle them.”  
   
Castiel turned to him, eyes narrowed to slits. “Since it is apparently so much smoother for you to put Isaiah to bed, then I will henceforth leave that task to you. Thank you, Dean.”  
   
“Hey, I never agreed to that.”  
   
“The trials of parenthood, Dean,” Castiel reminded him, like a complete and smug asshole. “You did pledge your assistance.” The credits began to roll.  
   
That got Dean thinking. “Hey, Cas?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“If I, um.” God, it was stupid to be bringing this up now, but if he didn’t, he knew he’d freak out all night worrying about it anyway. Like a bandage, he reminded himself, taking a deep inhale. “If I, um, say _no_ …”  
   
Immediately, Castiel’s attention was on him. “To…to the kissing?”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel’s face fell a little. “Are you saying no?” he asked, a bit hesitantly.  
   
“N—no,” said Dean. “Just. If I did.”  
   
“If you did.”  
   
Dean set his shoulders. “Yes, if I did say no—which I am not, right now, but if I did, um.” He swallowed. “Would you and Isaiah, would you leave?”  
   
Castiel was quiet for a moment. Without meaning to, Dean held his breath.  
   
“Would you want me to?” Castiel said finally.  
   
Dan blinked. “No!” he exclaimed, perhaps louder than strictly necessary. “I mean.” He coughed. “I want you guys to stay. I just, you know. Wanted to ask…”  
   
The corners of Castiel’s mouth turned down. “I told you my affections for you were not predicated on sex,” he said, voice tight. “I would not hold Isaiah’s presence hostage for such a thing.”  
   
Dean winced. “Cas, man,” he said. “That’s not what I meant. Promise.”  
   
“Then what did you mean?”  
   
Dean looked away. “I was just asking. Just…in case it made you uncomfortable, I guess. Wanted to see what was on the table.”  
   
“Dean. Look at me.”  
   
Swallowing, Dean swung his gaze back to Castiel, who was peering at him with a kind of grave consideration. Castiel tilted his head.  
   
“Dean,” he said slowly, “are you concerned that I am going to leave?”  
   
Eyes widening, Dean said, “N—no.”  
   
But Castiel was now nodding thoughtfully to himself. Before Dean could make his escape, Castiel fixed him with a look. “Unless you demand it of me, I will not leave,” he said. “I told you, you are my family now. This is your home, so here also I will stay.”  
   
There was a moment of silence. Unable to keep eye contact with Castiel, Dean dropped his gaze to his lap. “Okay,” he said finally, voice quiet.  
   
“Dean.”  
   
Dean looked up. “Okay,” he repeated. “I heard you.”  
   
Castiel frowned. “You do not look happy.”  
   
To placate him, Dean tried on a smile. “I’m tired,” he said. “Sorry.”  
   
“Are you sure there’s nothing else?”  
   
Dean sighed. “Cas, I’m just tired, man. Really. You don’t always have to read so much into things.”  
   
“Dean—”  
   
“I’m going to turn in,” Dean interrupted. “Night, Cas.”  
   
Castiel looked like he was going to say something else, then simply nodded. “Goodnight, Dean.”  
   
Stretching, Dean got to his feet. After one last glance at Castiel, he headed off to his room, uncomfortable silence in his wake.  
   
Dean brushed his teeth and washed his face mechanically. The washcloth was kind of gross. He made a mental note to do laundry. He settled into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, wishing he had Sam’s gift of falling asleep anywhere at a moment’s notice. He rolled onto his stomach, then onto his back again, but was unable to really get comfortable.  
   
Cas said that he was staying, and that Isaiah was staying. Of course Dean didn’t want them to go, but—could he really trust Cas on that?  
   
Dean stared up at the dark ceiling, thinking.  
   
Of course he trusted Cas, Dean reasoned. He trusted Cas with his life, with his brother’s life, even. But to trust that he would stay here, with Dean? That he would want to raise his child here? Among the hunts and the gore and all of Dean’s very many issues?  
   
That was a whole new ballgame.  
   
Dean was just about getting comfortable enough to maybe get some sleep, when a strange thumping noise outside in the hallway made him pause. He didn’t have to worry about investigating the source however, as a moment later, Castiel burst into his bedroom, hair in utter disarray and face pale. He skidded to a stop just inside the doorway.  
   
Dean immediately sat up. “Cas?” he said, the covers falling off his bare chest.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel panted, eyes wild. “Dean, Isaiah is gone.”  
 


	8. Chapter 8

Dean was out of bed and was over by the door in two quick strides. “Gone?” he said. “What do you mean, gone?”  
   
“He is not in his bedroom.” Castiel’s breathing was ragged. “He is not in the bunker, Dean, he is _gone!”_  
   
“Okay,” Dean said. He placed his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Okay, Cas. Breathe, okay?”  
   
Castiel grabbed at his arm. “What if someone took him? Dean, what if Heaven—” his breath hitched.  
   
“Breathe, Cas!” Dean commanded. When Castiel swallowed, but looked less like he was about to pass out from hyperventilating, Dean gave him a squeeze, then let go. “Okay,” he repeated, grabbing his bathrobe off the chair. “You can’t sense him in the bunker. Maybe—maybe he got outside somehow. There are the wards, right? You wouldn’t be able to sense him if he’s outside the wards.”  
   
“But,” Castiel said. “How could he have gotten outside? _Why_ would he have gone outside?”  
   
“I don’t—” Dean ran his fingers through his hair as he tugged Castiel by the wrist out of his room. “I don’t know,” he said. Passing Sam’s room, he hammered on the door, then banged it open, turning on the light.  
   
“What the—” Sam said blearily, shielding his eyes. “Dean?”  
   
“Isaiah’s missing,” Dean barked. “Get up.”  
   
“Holy shit.” Sam tumbled out of bed. “What?”  
   
“He was not in his room,” Castiel said quickly. “I can’t sense him in the bunker.”  
   
“He might’ve gotten outside.” Dean stole the flashlight off his brother’s shelf. “Come on.”  
   
They raced for the main entrance, pounding up the steps. When they got there and found the door slightly ajar, Castiel sucked in a breath. Dean placed a steadying hand on his arm. Castiel shot him a brief, thankful glance, and opened the door the rest of the way.  
   
“Cas?” Dean said, when they were outside. The night air had cooled down from the afternoon heat. He could hear crickets, interspersed with the _shush, shush_ of the long grasses as gusts of wind blew through them.  
   
Castiel turned to him, jaw clenched. “I don’t sense him.”  
   
“Wait.” Sam took a few steps forward, away from the shadow of the building. “We’re not outside the wards yet.”  
   
Before the words were even out of Sam’s mouth, Castiel was pushing past the both of them. It was obvious the instant that Castiel toed across the wards. His entire body went rigid. Dean’s heart seized as Castiel spun around to face the Winchesters, then pointed towards the wooded area behind the bunker, nearby where they had played that afternoon.  
   
“That way,” he said, and vanished in a beat of wings.  
   
“God damn it,” Dean cursed, before he and Sam took off running. As they tore through the weeds and grass, Dean’s slippers grew soaked with dew. One of them fell off. Without missing a beat, Dean pulled off the other one and continued on bare feet.  
   
Once they got around to the far side of the bunker, it became clear that Castiel had not had to fly far. At the very edges of the meadow, just into the trees, Dean spotted his unmistakable silhouette crouched next to one of the craggy pines.  
   
He arrived, gasping for breath, with Sam bringing up the rear a few seconds later. As soon as he caught sight of Castiel, and Isaiah next to him, he stopped short, knees weakening with relief. And then he noticed it.  
   
Isaiah was glowing. An eerie blue light just enough to illuminate his features, and to cast faint and long shadows among the trees.  
   
“What the…” Dean said, staring.  
   
Castiel put a finger to his lips. “I think he’s asleep.”  
   
“He sleepwalked out of the bunker?” Dean demanded, trying to keep his voice down. He shook his head. “Never mind that, why is he _glowing_?”  
   
“Uh, seconded,” said Sam from behind. “That is really weird.”  
   
“I don’t know.”  
   
“Well, is it bad?” Dean took another step forward, kneeling down next to Castiel. He searched Isaiah’s slack face. “Should we wake him?”  
   
“I don’t—” Castiel pressed his lips together. “His grace is very bright.”  
   
Dean frowned, turning to him. “Isn’t it usually?”  
   
“No, I mean.” Castiel stretched out a hand towards Isaiah’s face. “It is brighter than usual.”  
   
“Maybe his grace is doing it?” Sam ventured. “The glowing, I mean.”  
   
Dropping the hand before it made contact, Castiel gave a helpless shrug. “It is possible.”  
   
“You never glow,” Dean pointed out. He blinked. “Well, not unless it’s on purpose, I guess. And not blue.”  
   
“I’m not a naphil.”  
   
“Right,” Dean muttered. “But why would he start glowing and stuff now?”  
   
“I don’t know, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was tight. “I don’t know why this is happening. I have no precedent. I don’t—”  
   
Dean placed an arm around Castiel’s shoulder, drawing him in. “Breathe, Cas,” he instructed. “The kid’s okay. We can figure out the rest. There’s got to be some research somewhere.”  
   
Castiel closed his eyes, allowing himself to slump against Dean. “This is very unnerving,” he said, voice muffled.  
   
Sam was glancing nervously at the sky. “We should get back in the bunker,” he said. “Back inside the wards. Who knows if someone—or something, might be able to sense him?”  
   
“You’re right.” Castiel took a deep breath. He reached out as if to grab Isaiah, then hesitated. “What if I wake him?”  
   
“I always heard you weren’t supposed to wake sleepwalkers,” Dean said. “I don’t know why.”  
   
“I think it’s to avoid freaking them out.” Sam shrugged. “I thought you were supposed to just, lead them back to bed or something.”  
   
Dean and Castiel exchanged glances. “Let’s just carry him,” Dean said. Castiel gave a fervent nod.  
   
Dean stretched out a hand, but as soon as it encountered the edges of the blue glow around Isaiah, a bright spark of white light snapped out at him. Dean immediately moved backward several paces, holding his hand. “Ow!” he said, looking bewildered.  
   
“Are you all right?” Castiel demanded, rising to his feet.  
   
“Uh,” Dean said. He gave himself a shake. “Yeah, I think so.”  
   
Sam was already next to him, holding him steady. “What happened?”  
   
“Dude, I’m fine.” Dean showed him his hand. It was unmarked. “Just—felt like a little shock.”  
   
“Are you sure?” Castiel said.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I don’t think he was trying to hurt me or anything.”  
   
“Looks like he’s still asleep,” Sam pointed out. “He—” He froze as Isaiah’s eyes slowly opened. “Or not,” he said. “Uh, guys?”  
   
Dean turned, then did a double-take. “Cas,” he said urgently, grabbing Castiel’s arm.  
   
Along with the rest of him, Isaiah’s eyes were glowing a bright blue. He took a step towards them, blank stare fixed on something far away.  
   
Dean bit down on his lower lip. His hands flexed at his sides, but he didn’t touch this time. “Cas, I think you need to wake him up.”  
   
One quick look at Dean, and Castiel was sinking to his knees. He hesitated, then put two hands on Isaiah’s shoulders. There was no spark. Castiel’s hands blended seamlessly with the light emanating from Isaiah. Dean exhaled.  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel said. Then, louder. “Isaiah, you need to wake up.”  
   
Nothing. Isaiah attempted to take another step, but Castiel held him fast.  
   
“He’s getting brighter,” said Dean. “Cas.”  
   
Castiel gave a sharp nod. “Isaiah,” he repeated. He shook him slightly. “Isaiah, wake up!”  
   
Isaiah stiffened. After a moment, he blinked, the glow slowly draining from his eyes, and then the rest of his body, leaving them standing amongst the trees with nothing but the light from Sam’s flashlight.  
   
Castiel peered at him. “Isaiah,” he said softly. “Are you awake?”  
   
Wordlessly, Isaiah stared at Castiel, then at Dean, standing next to him. He turned his head to look at Sam, looming above him with the flashlight, then back to Castiel. His eyes beginning to fill, he took a deep, shuddering breath.  
   
“Daddy?”  
   
Castiel froze. Dean’s jaw dropped.  
   
Tears were beginning to slide down Isaiah’s cheeks. He held his arms out, breath hiccupping. “Daddy,” he sobbed.  
   
Immediately, Castiel was lunging forward. “Yes,” he said, enfolding Isaiah in a tight embrace, sweeping him up off the ground. “Yes, I’m here.”  
   
Isaiah continued to bawl into Castiel’s shoulder, his octopus arms wrapped around Castiel’s neck, clutching at him. Of course, not needing to actually breathe, Castiel only squeezed him tighter.  
   
“Hey, kiddo, we’re all here,” Dean said, patting him awkwardly on the back while Castiel rocked him back and forth. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”  
   
“We need to get back to the bunker,” Sam said. “Figure out what the hell is going on.”  
   
“We need to get back to the bunker and put someone’s ass back to bed,” Dean said.  
   
“Agreed,” Castiel said, as he adjusted his hold on Isaiah. “Let’s…” his gaze met with Dean’s, “let’s go home.”  
   
Swallowing, Dean gave a sharp nod.  
   
Now that he was no longer running on adrenaline, Dean was beginning to regret his lack of slippers, as he stepped on what was probably every twig and sharp rock in the meadow. It was barely a five-minute walk for three adults, but Dean had no idea how much time it would’ve taken for a sleeping, shambling child. Just how long had Isaiah been out there? An hour? Since Dean had left his room?  
   
“You are not to blame,” Castiel said quietly, as he walked next to Dean. Isaiah’s crying had calmed to softer sniffles, though he still hid his face in Castiel’s shoulder.  
   
“But—”  
   
“No, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was firm. “Neither of us knew this could happen. He shouldn’t have been able to get the door to the bunker open, let alone without one of us seeing him.” He frowned. “Or without my sensing him.”  
   
Dean sighed. “I don’t know, man,” he said. “I’d just feel a lot better if we knew what was going on.”  
   
Castiel pursed his lips. He swept a hand across Isaiah’s head. “I would as well,” he said. He looked for a moment like he was going to say more, but then his eyes dropped down to the child in his arms. He glanced back up at Dean, indicating to Isaiah with his chin as if to say, _later_.  
   
Dean understood. Just because the kid didn’t talk didn’t mean he couldn’t understand. If there was something bad going on, they didn’t want to scare him. Better that he stay in the dark as long as possible.  
   
When they got back to the bunker, Sam was careful to bolt the door. He caught eyes with Dean when the entrance was sealed, asking if they were going to take another look at it in the morning. Dean nodded back at him—they were definitely going to go over that thing inch by fucking inch if they had to.  
   
Down the stairwell and in the living room, Castiel sat a sniffling Isaiah on the couch, and began checking him for injuries. Isaiah’s face was blotchy, and his cheeks still wet. Dean went into the kitchen for a paper towel, and brought it back damp to Castiel. Castiel nodded his thanks and started wiping down Isaiah’s dirty feet.  
   
Gingerly, Dean sat down next to Isaiah on the couch, and put an arm around him in a one-armed hug, pulling him close. A moment, and the tension in Isaiah’s body began to drain as he leaned against Dean. His thumb started to make its way up to his mouth. Castiel cleared his throat, and Dean caught the offending hand, holding it tightly while Castiel finished.  
   
“He has no cuts,” Castiel said quietly.  
   
“Good.”  
   
Castiel exhaled. “I want to take him to get some clean pajamas,” he said. He looked up at Dean from his position near Isaiah’s feet. “These ones are all dirty.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean said. He rubbed his forehead, giving Isaiah a squeeze as he let go and stood up. “Two sets of PJ’s in one night, kid,” he told Isaiah, who refused to release his hand. “You’re pretty lucky.” He turned to Castiel. “Do you need help?”  
   
Opening his mouth, Castiel paused when he saw Sam reentering the room, a book in his hands.  
   
“Dean,” said Sam.  
   
Dean glanced from Castiel to Sam. His mouth twisted. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Research time.” He carefully disentangled himself from Isaiah’s hold. “Hey, kid,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”  
   
Isaiah regarded him gravely. And then, to Dean’s utter surprise, he whispered, “‘Kay.”  
   
For what felt like the first time that night, Dean let out a real smile. “Okay,” he repeated, as Castiel picked him up. Castiel’s forehead was still wrinkled with concern, but his eyes were gentle as he toted Isaiah away.  
   
Dean kept his composure until they disappeared into the hallway, and then his shoulders sagged. He covered his face with his hand.  
   
“Are you okay?” Sam came up to him.  
   
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” Dean’s voice was hoarse. He coughed to clear it. “Did you find something already?”  
   
“Not really.” Sam handed the book to him. “I was actually just showing this to Cas today. It had some mention of the nephilim, but not much to go on.”  
   
“Damn,” Dean said. He paged through it. “This is all in Latin.”  
   
“I think it’s been through a couple translations.” Sam took it back, thumbing to a specific page. “Probably at least from Greek. Maybe some other stuff.”  
   
“What was it originally?”  
   
Sam lifted his shoulders. “Cas’s best guess was Hebrew, but who knows.”  
   
“Okay.” Dean sat at the table. Sam claimed the seat across from him. “Did it say anything useful?”  
   
Sam’s lips pinched together. “Hard to know what’s useful,” he admitted. “But there was nothing about glowing in the dark.” He grimaced. “Mostly just a lot of, uh, lists.”  
   
“Lists?”  
   
“Uh, some family lines. Some, uh, exploits.”  
   
Dean eyes narrowed. “Exploits?”  
   
“Uh,” Sam said, “conquering the next tribe over? Sacking a couple towns? Oh, I think there was something about a cult of priests that popped up, too.” His voice was apologetic as he said, “As a whole, the nephilim were kind of a screwed up bunch. I mean, Cas said that’s why they were destroyed, but man. This book doesn’t skimp on the details.”  
   
“So basically this just lists all of Cas’s worst nightmares for what Isaiah’s going to want to be when he grows up,” Dean said, pushing the book back towards Sam. “Awesome.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Nothing about glowing or sleepwalking?”  
   
“No,” said Sam. “But I haven’t read the whole thing, obviously.”  
   
Dean let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said. “I guess that’s where we start.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
The following morning found Dean lying in bed, trying to force open eyes grainy from lack of sleep. After a couple minutes, he finally sat up when the squeak of the bathroom tap and Castiel’s low murmur pushed him into full consciousness. Those sounds meant that Cas was probably helping Isaiah in the bathroom, which meant that Dean needed to get his ass down to the kitchen.  
   
Only pausing to grab his bathrobe, Dean plodded along down the hallway.  
   
Two cups of coffee later, and Dean felt like he was awake enough to attempt pancakes without setting the kitchen on fire. He set first to making the batter, then heating up the griddle he’d snagged from a garage sale. It was just as he was carefully pouring the batter onto the heated surface that Castiel walked in, Isaiah at his side.  
   
“Morning,” Dean yawned.  
   
In response, Castiel grunted something, making a beeline for the mug of coffee Dean had left out for him. He took a deep sip, then set it down and turned around to direct Isaiah into a chair. Dean flipped the pancakes.  
   
“Morning, kiddo,” Dean said, leaning against the counter. He took another drink of his own coffee. “Feeling better?”  
   
Isaiah flashed a tiny grin at him. He looked none the worse for wear, given his nighttime adventures. Especially not compared to the rest of them, Dean thought.  
   
“Ready for some pancakes?” Dean scooped them up onto the plate.  
   
“Milk,” said Castiel, putting a glass down by Isaiah’s plate, while Dean slid two pancakes onto it. “Dean, are those chocolate chips?” he said crossly.  
   
“Didn’t have any fruit to put in there,” Dean lied. He winked at Isaiah. “Did you get the syrup?”  
   
“He doesn’t need syrup, too,” Castiel muttered, though he handed Dean the bottle anyway. Dean poured a dollop-sized amount on Isaiah’s plate, while Castiel began to help saw the pancakes into little pieces.  
   
“Hey, pancakes,” Sam said from the door. He selected a plate and went to grab some. Dean halted him with a spatula to the chest.  
   
“Don’t take the Mickey Mouse shaped ones, those are for Isaiah.”  
   
“Really, Dean?” Sam rolled his eyes. He pushed Dean’s spatula out of the way, but selected three ordinary round pancakes. He sat down at the table with a huff.  
   
“If you’re going to be so whiny about it, I can make you some special ones next time,” Dean told him. He walked back to the griddle and poured some more batter. “How about an ‘S’? For ‘Samantha.’”  
   
“Morning, Cas,” Sam said, ignoring him.  
   
“Good morning, Sam,” Castiel returned. He absently handed Isaiah a napkin. “Did you sleep at all?”  
   
“I caught a few hours.” Sam shoveled a pancake into his mouth. “Everything stay quiet last night?”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel scrubbed at his face. “I stayed with him all night. Nothing.”  
   
“Maybe we should get a nanny-cam,” Dean suggested, coming towards them with a fresh batch. He handed Castiel a plate and a fork. “Eat something,” he said.  
   
“I don’t need to eat.”  
   
“I don’t care.” Dean deposited a large, C-shaped pancake on his plate. Castiel blinked at it, then sent Dean a tentative smile.  
   
“Thank you, Dean.”  
   
Dean’s cheeks reddened, but he bobbed his head. “And here’s your ‘S,’ Samantha,” he told Sam, sliding it onto his plate.  
   
“Jerk,” said Sam, cutting into it anyway.  
   
Dean put the plate down, and slid into the last empty chair. He grabbed four pancakes for himself, and then reached for the syrup. “So, what’s the plan?” he asked, as he poured it over his plate.    
   
“I’m still reading that book,” Sam said. He cast a contrite look at Castiel. “I know we talked about going through it together,” he said. “But I’m thinking time is of the essence, here.”  
   
“It’s all right.” Castiel took a drink of his coffee. “I would have been distracted, anyway.”  
   
Dean rested his elbows on the table. “Find anything interesting?”  
   
“Unfortunately, no.” Sam scratched at his chin. “I’m not even halfway through though,” he added. “There could still be something.”  
   
“I can help now, too,” Castiel said. He eyed Isaiah. “I think today would be a good day to stay inside.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said slowly. “I think you’re right.” He began collecting plates. “I can set him up with some cartoons for now,” he said. “If he starts to gets restless, we can figure out something else.”  
   
“Agreed,” Castiel said. He poured some water onto a napkin, and began to scrub at Isaiah’s syrup-sticky hands with it, while Isaiah made faces at him. “Hold still.”  
   
“You guys going to work in the library or out here?” Dean asked.  
   
Sam shrugged, indicating towards Castiel. “He’ll probably want to work out here,” he said. “I don’t mind, so long as the TV’s not too loud.”  
   
Dean nodded. “When the kid’s distracted, I’ll go look in the library. See if there’s anything else I can find for you guys.”  
   
“All right,” said Sam. He pushed his chair back, standing and cracking his neck. “I’m going to go get that book.”  
   
It didn’t take long to get Isaiah settled on the couch watching some low-grade cartoons. Though he had been energetic enough at breakfast, the previous night appeared to be catching up to him already, and he snuggled in with a blanket, seemingly content to stay in his pajamas and chill for the time being.  
   
Dean sent a quick look over his shoulder to the main table and, seeing Sam and Castiel with their heads bent over a couple of books, Dean headed for the library.  
   
To their credit, the Men of Letters had kept their library very well organized. There was a section on supernatural creatures, a separate one on witches, a whole three shelves of books and scrolls dedicated just to Ancient Egyptian curses, and another one that Dean hadn’t quite figured out the unifying theme of, but had a lot of books written on human flesh that he’d taken to calling mentally “The Forbidden Section”.  And all that was just the front room.  
   
Dean had a vague suspicion that the Men of Letters had known about angels as Real Creatures—at least in theory, but there was no angel sub-section in the supernatural creature books. However, previous experience had taught Dean that the Men of Letters had also been avid collectors of anything remotely biblical. In fact, it was by far the largest part of the library. Mixed in with the various King James Bibles, Sixteen different copies of the Koran, and a Torah scroll that Castiel had taken one look at, turned white, and firmly locked away back in its cupboard, Dean knew that there was the section where he could find stuff on angels and their doings.  
   
He headed there now and, with a shrug, started at the bottom of the shelf, scanning titles, paying special attention to ones that didn’t look like they were in English—bonus points if he failed to recognize the language all together.  
   
An hour or so later and, with nothing to show for it but some newly memorized Greek, Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket. With a sigh, he took it out. When he saw who was calling, he pressed to answer, placing the speaker next to his ear.  
   
“Hey, Jody.”  
   
“Dean?”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean began to pick his way back out of the library.  
   
“How’re you doing? How’s that kid?”  
   
“He’s doing all right. Watching cartoons right now.” Dean closed the library door. “Hold on,” he said. “I’m coming out of the library. The service in there sucks.”  
   
“Okay,” Jody said. A pause. “But he’s doing all right? And Castiel?”  
   
Dean snorted. “Man, Jody. If Isaiah was in kindergarten, Cas’d probably be head of the PTA right now.”  
   
Jody laughed. “So he’s doing okay?”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said softly, catching sight of Castiel and Sam sitting at the table. “I’d say he’s doing all right.”  
   
“Good.” Jody let out a breath. “I have to admit, I was a little worried about letting him take the kid.”  
   
“Nah,” Dean said. “He’s been getting the hang of it.”  
   
“And he has you,” Jody pointed out.  
   
Dean sighed. “Jody, come on.”  
   
“I’m just saying,” she said. “He could’ve done a lot worse.”  
  
Dean made a doubtful noise in his throat. “Is there something you were calling about?” he said pointedly.  
   
“Are you trying to change the subject on me, Dean?”  
   
“Jody.”  
   
“All right, all right.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “Sam probably told you, I’ve been trying to get Claire to go down there.”  
   
“He said something about it,” Dean replied neutrally. “How’s she doing?”  
   
“Sulking,” Jody said flatly. “I swear to god, it was never this bad before. I’m going crazy.”  
   
Dean couldn’t help himself. He laughed. At the noise, Sam and Castiel looked up. Dean covered the receiver with one hand and said, “It’s Jody.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes widened.  
   
“Anyway,” Jody continued, “I finally agreed to get her to come down there with me, though no promises on talking to Castiel.” Her voice lowered. “I think she does miss him,” she said. “Though she probably won’t even want to admit it to herself.”  
   
“So…” Dean said. “Does that mean you guys are coming here?”  
   
“Yeah.” Jody coughed a little. “Is tomorrow okay?”  
   
“Tomorrow?” said Dean, voice a little high. He shot a panicked look at Castiel and Sam. “You’ll be here tomorrow?”  
   
“That’s what I said.”  
   
“Uh,” said Dean, while Sam shook his head frantically. “We’re kind of—”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel’s face was serious.  
   
Dean covered the receiver again. “Yeah, Cas?”  
   
“Does Jody intend to bring Claire?”  
   
Dean grimaced. “That’s what she says.”  
   
Castiel looked thoughtful for a moment, then he said, “I would like to see her. Please.”  
   
“Cas, are you sure?” Sam asked. “I mean, we’re kind of in the middle of a crisis here.”  
   
But Castiel’s nod was firm. “I am sure,” he said. “We can continue to research while they are here, but I would still like the opportunity to speak to Claire again.” He hesitated, then said, “I would like her to have to opportunity to meet Isaiah.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean said slowly. “If you’re sure.” He uncovered the receiver. “Jody?”  
   
“Still here?”  
   
Dean rubbed at his forehead. “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow.”  
   
“All right. I’ll call when we get close.”  
   
“Okay. Talk to you tomorrow.”  
   
“Bye.”  
   
As Jody hung up, Dean slid into an empty chair. He laid his arms down on the table, and rested his chin on top of them. “Cas, are you sure you’re okay with this?”  
   
“I am,” Castiel replied. Lowering his book, he caught sight of Dean. “Are _you_ all right with this, Dean?” he said, voice full of concern.  
   
Blowing air out of the corner of his mouth, Dean said, “I feel like there’s some potential for some shit to go down.” He made a face. “I don’t want Isaiah to have to watch Claire screaming at you. Or whatever.”  
   
“Claire won’t scream at me.” Castiel put the book aside. “At worst, she’ll ignore me. But I don’t think she’d do anything like that in front of Isaiah.”  
   
Dean’s lips thinned. “It’s your call, Cas,” he said, raising his head and standing up again. “But I reserve the right to kick her out if she goes crazy.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel admonished.  
   
“I’m just saying.” Dean held up his hands.  
   
“Yes, I can see that.” Castiel’s voice was somewhere between exasperated and fond. “It will be fine.”  
   
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Dean threatened, pointing a finger at him.  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “Very well.” He stretched, looking towards the clock on the wall. “It’s almost time for lunch,” he said, surprised, beginning to rise. Dean waved him back down.  
   
“Nah, I’ll get it.”  
   
“You made breakfast.”  
   
“And I’ll make lunch, too,” Dean retorted. “And probably dinner. Grilled cheese, okay?”  
   
“With tomato soup?” Sam asked hopefully, not even looking up from his work.  
   
Dean cast his eyes heavenwards. “Fine, with your tomato soup,” he muttered, as he made his way to the kitchen.  
   
   
#  
   
   
Jody and Claire rolled up to the bunker a little after two o’clock the next day. When he got the call preceding their arrival, Dean was caught between dread and relief.  
   
Isaiah had been sullen and whiny all day. Though Castiel, who kept watch during the night, had told him that there had not been another repeat of the sleepwalking and glowing incident, he did report that Isaiah had still seemed to sleep fitfully, if at all.  
   
“Fitfully?” Dean said, one eye on the kid at the table. Isaiah was pushing his cereal around and around in the bowl, but he’d yet to take a bite. “Like, how?”  
   
Castiel shook his head. His eyes were ringed with dark circles. For an angel, albeit a weakened one, that seemed rather concerning as well, but Dean was too worried about Isaiah to remark on it. He knew Castiel was sensitive about his lessened grace.  
   
“He tosses and turns,” Castiel said, “like he is uncomfortable. He awoke twice last night, and wouldn’t sleep again until I had soothed him.”  
   
“Damn it,” Dean said. He passed a hand over his eyes. “And Sam’s had no luck finding anything, either.”  
   
“Nothing,” Castiel said grimly.  
   
“Maybe it’s just,” Dean pushed himself off the counter. He kept his voice low. “Maybe it’s just a phase of some kind.”  
   
Castiel looked at him, face pallid. “Do you think it is just a phase?”  
   
Their eyes met. Dean glanced away first. “We need to get him to eat something,” he said. Castiel made a resigned noise.  
   
“He won’t eat.”  
   
“Maybe he’s sick,” Dean said. He crossed his arms, watching as Isaiah pushed his cereal away.  
   
Castiel frowned. “Nothing should be able to sicken him,” he said, as Dean made his way over to the table and sat down.  
   
“Hey, kiddo,” said Dean. “You don’t want cereal?”  
   
A head shake. Isaiah seemed to have reverted back to his mute state.  
   
“Are you feeling okay?”  
   
Isaiah shrugged, playing with his spoon. Annoyed, Dean took it away.  
   
“Isaiah, look at me.”  
   
Scowling, Isaiah reached for the spoon instead.  
   
“Isaiah, you need to eat something.”  
   
Mouth set in a thin line, Isaiah continued to ignore him. Giving up on the spoon, he aimed for one of the salt shakers. Dean closed his eyes.  
   
“Isaiah, come on,” he said, voice sharpening. “Two bites.”  
   
Clearly not liking where this was going, Isaiah gave Dean a stubborn glare, crossed his arms, and turned away.  
   
Dean took a deep breath. “Isaiah—” he began hotly, but stopped when he felt Castiel’s firm hand land on his shoulder.  
   
“If you are not hungry,” Castiel said, his voice very, very calm, “then maybe you are tired. Maybe you need to go back to bed.”  
   
Horrified, Isaiah swiveled back around and, miracle of miracles, opened his mouth. “No,” he whined.  
   
Dean and Castiel exchanged startled glances. Dean nodded towards the cereal. “Your choice, kid,” he said. “Three bites of cereal, or back to bed for an early nap.”  
   
The corners of Isaiah’s mouth turned down. “Two,” he insisted.  
   
Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s three now,” he said. “And every time you complain, it’s going to be one more.”  
   
Isaiah narrowed his eyes at Dean. Dean squinted right back. After another moment, Isaiah let out a huff, and reached for his cereal. Satisfied, Dean handed him back his spoon.  
   
As they watched Isaiah eat the requisite three bites, Castiel’s hand left Dean’s shoulder, brushing past his neck. It tingled a little, but Dean didn’t mention it.  
   
His nose wrinkled to downright comical levels, Isaiah finished his last bite and practically threw the spoon down.  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel chided.  
   
Isaiah looked guilty for a half-second, then his gaze slid to Dean. He pointed at the cereal, and tilted his head questioningly.  
   
Dean glanced at Castiel, who gave the slightest of nods. “Fine,” Dean said. “You’re excused.”  
   
Not wasting any time, lest he be forced to eat more cereal, Isaiah hopped down from his seat, grudgingly accepting Castiel’s assistance when it became clear that he needed someone to help him move the chair back so he could get out.  
   
Despite the fact that he was acting like a little shit, Dean was hard put not to laugh at the pint-sized irritation on Isaiah’s face.  
   
“Time to brush your teeth,” Castiel told him, reaching for his hand. For a moment, Isaiah looked like he was going to snatch it away, before he caught sight of Dean and his warning glance. Pouting, he allowed Castiel to lead him away.  
   
As soon as they were gone, Dean let out a long exhale. God, he hoped the rest of the day wasn’t going to be like that.  
   
Of course, the rest of the day was, invariably, exactly like that.  
   
Everything. Goddamn, everything, was a trial. Coloring? Isaiah was tired of coloring. Toys? No, they were boring, he’d much rather play with Uncle Sam. Even though Uncle Sam was busy. Okay, fine—he’d play with the soccer ball, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to throw it.  
   
Not throw the ball? What? No, he’d never heard of such a rule. That was an unfair rule. Time-outs were unfair. Dean was unfair. Daddy was unfair.  
   
“I am going to rip my hair out,” Dean whispered to Castiel, who placed a calming hand on his arm.  
   
“He’s throwing the ball again,” Sam said blandly, from behind his Ancient Greek to Latin dictionary, Volume III.  
   
Dean cursed.  
   
Finally, after two more episodes of SpongeBob than Dean had originally agreed he could watch, Isaiah conked out amongst the pillows of the couch. Dean and Castiel exchanged relieved looks.  
   
“He looks like such a little angel like this,” Dean observed, as he carefully gathered Isaiah’s slack form.  
   
Castiel favored him with a jaundiced look. “Not funny.”  
   
“I wasn’t trying to be.”  
   
“Yes.” A beat. “Yes, you were.”  
   
It was just about then when Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He gave Castiel a slightly panicked glance, and then Castiel was holding his arms out for Isaiah. Dean transferred him over.  
   
“Is that Jody?”  
   
“Probably.” Dean pulled out his phone. “Yeah,” he said. He sighed. “I’d better go get the door.”  
   
“I’ll finish putting him to bed.” Castiel looked hopeful. “Maybe he’ll be in a better mood when he wakes up.”  
   
“Doubt it,” Dean muttered as he turned away.  
   
Given the morning he’d had therefore, Dean greeted Jody and Claire somewhat tiredly.  
   
“Hey, Dean,” Jody said, getting out of the car.  
   
“You look terrible,” Claire informed him, as she got out as well. Dean glared at her half-heartedly.  
   
“So glad you could join us.”  
   
“Hey,” Jody said. “Be nice.”  
   
“I’m here under duress,” Claire said. “I don’t have to be nice.”  
   
“Yes, you do,” Jody told her, as Dean heaved open the door for them. “That was part of the deal.”  
   
“Deal?”  
   
Jody pressed her lips together.  
   
“Jody said she’ll back me up on three hunts after this,” Claire said, shoving past him with her stuff.  
   
“Really?” Somewhat surprised, Dean looked back at Jody, who shrugged.  
   
“Just wait,” she said. “You’ll do anything to get them to quit sulking and out of the house.”  
   
“Oh, I believe you,” Dean said, thinking of his morning.  
   
By the time they’d trooped down the stairs, Claire was already at the table with Sam, who seemed to be doing a piss poor job of fending of her questions.  
   
Jody turned to Dean. “Wait, are you guys on a hunt?”  
   
“Not exactly,” Dean hedged. “It’s kind of…” he trailed off. “Better let Cas explain when he gets back.”  
   
“Okay?”  
   
“It’s kind of complicated.”  
   
With a shrug, Jody dropped her bag on the floor. “Where is Castiel?” she asked, taking a seat. “And the kid?”  
   
“ _He_ ,” Dean said, “is napping. Thank god.” He noticed Claire’s quick look over to him and then away when she heard Castiel’s name. “Cas is putting him down.”  
   
Jody grinned Dean’s exasperation. “Bad day?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows. Dean hung his head. Jody snorted at him. “Don’t worry,” she said, pointing at Claire. “They get a lot worse.”  
   
“Please don’t tell me that,” Dean said. “If I have to hear the word _unfair_ , one more time, I swear to—oh, hey, Cas.”  
   
“Hello, Dean.” Castiel stepped into the room. He’d apparently taken the time to change out of his ragged t-shirt and jeans, into something that might be called suitable for company, but he still looked haggard.  
   
“Uh,” said Dean. Were those pants new? His were always way baggier on Cas than that. He startled as Sam cleared his throat. “Oh,” he said. “Uh, Jody and Claire are here.” He motioned to them unnecessarily.  
   
“Hello, Castiel,” Jody said warmly. She waved.  
   
“Hello,” Castiel returned. “It is nice to see you again. Welcome.” He looked towards Claire. “Hello, Claire,” he said quietly.  
   
Claire eyed him for a moment, then crossed her arms and said nothing. After a moment, Castiel’s shoulders slumped. He nodded towards Dean, while Jody made an apologetic face.  
   
“I’m going to go check on Isaiah,” he said, before turning and making his retreat.  
   
As soon as he was gone, Jody’s pained smiled morphed into a scowl. “Claire!” she said sharply.  
   
“What?” Claire shrugged, toying with the zipper on her coat. “I said I’d come here, not that I’d talk to him.”  
   
“It’s implied,” Jody said. “Come on, at least make an effort.”  
   
Claire’s lips thinned. Jody made a noise of frustration, and Dean covered his face with his hands.  
   
Oh yeah. This was going to be absolutely terrific.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

With Castiel conspicuously gone the majority of the afternoon, it fell to Sam and Dean to explain what had been going on.  
   
“Sleepwalking?” Jody mused, as Sam talked. “I wouldn’t be too worried about that.” She rested her chin in her hands. “I would be worried about the glowing thing though,” she said, as Sam continued. “That’s kind of weird.”  
   
“Yeah, I don’t think I ever did that as a kid,” said Claire. She stuck her feet on the table, but removed them after a pointed nudge from Jody.  
   
Sam coughed. “Anyway,” he said, “there’s not much out there about the nephilim. We don’t really know if this is normal or what.”  
   
“But it doesn’t sound like he’s sleeping,” Jody said, eyes narrowed in concern. “That doesn’t seem right.”  
   
Dean made a noise in his throat. “We thought that it might be because he’s half angel,” he said. “Cas doesn’t really need to sleep either. Though, now with his grace the way it is…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Anyway, Isaiah used to sleep just fine.” He made a face. “Cas’s best guess is that when he gets older he’ll need it less and less, but now?” he sighed, leaning forward. “He’s just like any other kid. He should be sleeping.”  
   
“Any other _grumpy_ kid who’s been up all night,” Sam put in, exasperated.  
   
Jody’s breath hissed between her teeth in sympathy. Claire examined her fingernails.  
   
“Why don’t you just give him some cough medicine?”  
   
Jody slowly turned to look at her. “Really?”  
   
“Nice try, kid,” Dean said, not even having the energy to be mad at her. “No effect. Cas says he metabolizes it too fast. We’d have to give him the whole damn bottle.”  
   
“Damn.” Despite herself, Claire looked a little impressed.  
   
“Do you think any of the other angels might know anything?” Jody asked.  
   
Sam and Dean glanced at each other. “We’ve been kind of on the down low from Heaven,” Dean said. “Word on the street is, dicks with wings don’t really approve of the whole, uh, interbreeding thing.”  
   
“To be fair,” Sam said, thumping his book, “I’m starting to kind of get why. Some of these dudes were nasty.”  
   
The corner of Dean’s right eye twitched. “I’m starting to wonder if maybe they were all just pissed off from getting no sleep,” he said.  
   
“Oh yeah,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “That’d drive anyone to a life of burning and pillaging.”  
   
“I’d believe it,” said Dean.  
   
“But that shouldn’t be a problem with Isaiah,” Jody said, frowning. “Not with all of you taking care of him.”  
   
“Keeping him on the right path,” Claire added. “Making sure he says no to drugs—peer pressure’s a bitch, by the way—”  
   
“Funny,” Dean told her, while Sam gave a helpless shrug.  
   
“We hope not.”  
   
“Sam,” Dean said.  
   
Sam turned to him. “Dean, we still don’t know what happened to all the nephilim,” he said. “Maybe it’s just…something we have no control over.”  
   
Dean’s mouth thinned. “He’s Cas’s kid, not Anakin Skywalker.”  
   
“…That’s really not a good comparison,” said Sam. He closed the book, his expression pinched.  
   
“Well,” said Claire, folding her hands on top of the table, “I hear that going to the dark side is kind of a family tradition for you guys, isn’t it? So he should fit right in?”  
   
“All right,” Jody said abruptly, before Dean could quite finish opening his mouth to chew Claire out for that. “Come on, you can help me get the bags up to the rooms.”  
   
Perhaps realizing that she might have overstepped, Claire rose without complaint.  
   
“I’ll, uh,” said Sam, with a quick sidelong glance at Dean’s stony face. “I’ll show you where the rooms are.”  
   
“Thanks, Sam,” said Jody. She arched an eyebrow at him when he picked up her bag for her. “I can carry that, you know.”  
   
Sam hoisted the bag. “You’re a guest.”  
   
“I’m a guest, too,” said Claire.  
   
“Sorry,” Sam said, beginning to head out of the room. “One per customer.”  
   
“Tough break, hon,” Jody told her as she passed. Claire glowered, but she followed silently.  
   
As soon as the sound of their footsteps faded, Dean dropped his head into his hands, breathing deeply. The sound of a floorboard creaking startled him into looking up. When he spied the intruders however, his shoulders relaxed.  
   
“Hey,” he said.  
   
Looking for all the world like he’d timed his arrival to the exact moment that the others had left, Castiel moved further into the room. “Hello,” he replied, adjusting his hold on Isaiah.  
   
Dean’s expression softened. “Hey, Isaiah,” he said. “Did you have a good nap?”  
   
Isaiah stuck his thumb in his mouth. Castiel absently removed it, wiping it off on his shirt.  
   
“He did,” said Castiel, voice wry. “We even managed to put on some clean clothes with no complaints.” He patted down the collar of Isaiah’s blue polo shirt in satisfaction.  
   
“Looks like,” Dean observed. “Snazzy.” He tilted his head, then held out his arms. “Can I have a hug?”  
   
Isaiah considered him solemnly for a moment, then nodded. Castiel walked forward the last few steps, and deposited him in Dean’s lap. Feeling the warm weight of him, Dean gathered him close. Nose to Isaiah’s hair, he inhaled his clean scent while Isaiah nestled against his chest, clearly still sleepy.  
   
Castiel sat down in the vacated chair next to them, drawing it closer to Dean. “I heard what Claire said,” he murmured. He touched Dean’s wrist. “She spoke out of anger. It won’t happen.”  
   
Dean rotated to face him. His eyes searched Castiel’s. “I’m worried,” he confessed. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Cas, what if Sam’s right? What if we _can’t_ do anything?”  
   
“We’ll find something, Dean.” Castiel’s gaze was steady. “We always find something.”  
   
Dean choked out a laugh, shifting Isaiah’s weight. Isaiah made a grumble of protest, but soon settled again, head pillowed on Dean’s chest. “Man,” he said. “I don’t know how you’re holding it together.”  
   
The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitched up, though the rest of his face remained stoic. “I have you,” he said simply.  
   
Dean let out a bark of laughter.  
   
In return, Castiel canted his head. “In this, or in anything else, you are the only one I would want to fight by my side. After all we have been through, is that so hard to understand?”  
   
“I mean,” said Dean. “I—” He bit down on his lower lip, looking away and to the floor.  
   
Castiel cast his eyes towards the ceiling. “My apologies,” he said. “That was a stupid question. But, Dean.” He stretched forward again, reaching his hand to Dean’s face, his knuckles brushing down his cheek. Dean closed his eyes at the caress. “My faith in my Father collapsed long ago,” he said. “But in you?” He shook his head. “Never.”  
   
Dean exhaled a long, shaky breath. He scrubbed at his face. “Cas, I mean…” He pressed his fingers to his temples, words quiet. “How could you possibly have that kind of faith in a guy like me?”  
   
“I am an angel, Dean.” Castiel said. His voice was surprisingly gentle. “I was built to have faith. The only difference is,” and here he leaned closer, mouth right up against Dean’s ear, “I _chose_ to have faith in you. Not my Father. Not my brothers. You.”  
   
Dean shivered at the closeness of him, the certainty in his words. Castiel’s back straightened.  
   
“I chose you, Dean,” Castiel said. “I will always choose you.”  
   
To his utter humiliation, Dean felt the corners of his eyes beginning to burn. He bowed his head, only to be confronted with Isaiah’s wide, curious gaze. Isaiah reached out a hand and touched it to Dean’s face.  
   
“Daddy Dean?” he said. “Are you sad?”  
   
Dean’s breath hitched in his throat. He caught Isaiah’s small hand, holding it tightly as he turned to look at Castiel.  
   
“Cas…?” he whispered, not quite a question, not quite a plea.  
   
“I chose you,” Castiel reminded him. He glanced down at his offspring, lips twitching upward. “And it appears that I am not the only one.”  
   
“Daddy Dean?” Isaiah said again, while Dean took steadying breaths, trying to get a grip on himself.  
   
“Well, _Daddy Dean_?” Castiel asked, the laugh lines near his eyes crinkling.  
   
Dean shot him a look. “It’s cuter when he does it.” As Castiel made an affronted face at him, Dean ducked his head to peer down at Isaiah again. “Thanks, kid,” he said softly. “I was feeling a little sad. But I’m better now.”  
   
Isaiah considered this for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Okay,” he said. He sat up, sliding down off of Dean’s lap, while Dean tried to wipe the dopey smile off his face.  
   
“Oof,” said Dean, as Isaiah’s elbow collided with his gut. “Watch it, kiddo.”  
   
“Hungry,” Isaiah told him, grabbing his hand.  
   
Just to be a jerk, Dean leaned back in his chair. “Oh, are you hungry?”  
   
Isaiah pouted. “Yes.”  
   
“That’s funny. I thought you were Isaiah.” Dean nodded. “Nice to meet you, Hungry.”  
   
Quite unexpectedly, Castiel snorted, then let out a full belly laugh. “Oh,” he said, catching his breath while Dean and Isaiah turned to stare at him. “That is a funny one. I’m going to remember that. Nice to meet you, Hungry.” He chortled.  
   
“Oh my god,” said Dean. “Cas, it wasn’t that funny. Jesus.”  
   
“It was,” Castiel insisted. “It had good wordplay.”  
   
Dean slapped his free hand over his face.  
   
“Daddy Dean,” Isaiah complained, tugging at him again while Dean played at being dead weight.  
   
“When are we planning to eat dinner?” Castiel asked, the corners of his mouth still twitching. At his words, Isaiah swiveled to frown at him like a man deeply betrayed. He turned back to Dean.  
   
“I don’t want dinner. I want a brownie.”  
   
“Your Uncle Sam ate all the brownies,” Dean said.  
   
Isaiah pursed his lips, like he couldn’t quite decide if Dean was messing with him or not. “No, he didn’t,” he decided.  
   
“He did.” Dean wiggled his eyebrows at him.  
   
“That’s not fair,” Isaiah said. “I want a brownie, too.”  
   
Dean shrugged at Castiel. “It’s four-thirty now,” he said. “Could probably eat at six, six-thirty.”  
   
“I’m hungry,” Isaiah reminded them.  
   
“No, you’re a Chatty Cathy is what you are.” Dean heaved himself to his feet. “Do we have any cheese sticks left?” he asked Castiel.  
   
“I think so.”  
   
“I don’t want cheese. I want a brownie.”  
   
“You can always have Uncle Sam’s leftover broccoli in revenge,” Dean told him. Isaiah scrunched up his nose. “Yeah, I thought so,” said Dean.  
   
“I can cut up an apple,” Castiel suggested, standing as well. He sighed as Isaiah made a face, sticking out his tongue. “Hush, Isaiah. Apples are good for you. They contain an excellent balance of fiber and nutrients.”  
   
“Brownie,” Isaiah muttered rebelliously, falling against Dean’s knees.  
   
Dean blinked down at him. “Didn’t you used to be quiet?” Ignoring Isaiah’s response, which was mostly to make more faces, he looked up at Castiel. “Sure, come on. We can have kitchen party.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
The kitchen party in question was very low key. Isaiah chomped on a cheese stick and some apple slices, while Dean stood in front of the refrigerator with the door open, deliberating between homemade macaroni, or burgers.  
   
“Macaroni,” said Castiel.  
   
Dean turned, hands on his hips. “Did mine ears deceive me, or did you really just turn down a chance for a hamburger?”  
   
“Isaiah is more likely to eat the macaroni.”  
   
“Oh.” Dean drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Yeah, you’re right,” he admitted, reaching for the giant block of cheddar. “Macaroni it is.”  
   
With Isaiah distracted at the kitchen table, first with his snack, and then with what Dean really hoped were the washable kind of watercolor paints, Dean was free to get his chef on. He did so with gusto, absently enjoying the warmth of the kitchen, the clatter of Isaiah’s paints behind him, the deep murmur of Castiel’s voice.  
   
An hour or so later, the smell of sizzling pasta and cheese wafting through the bunker began to draw everyone else towards the kitchen. Obviously not knowing what was good for him, Sam stuck his head in first, and was promptly relegated to salad duty, while Dean attempted to discreetly pull his previously frozen cookie dough out of the freezer without Isaiah noticing.  
   
Isaiah did notice, and Dean was forced to sacrifice a bite or two, but Sam didn’t get any, so Dean was counting it as a win.  
   
Not longer after, Sam shoved the completed salad at Dean, who shoved it right back at him and told him to go set the goddamn table. Sam shot an accusatory look towards Castiel, who was quite suddenly very busy holding down Isaiah’s paper for him while he painted.  
   
Jody came in next, and immediately made a beeline for Isaiah. She didn’t hug him, but Isaiah did seem to recognize her, allowing her to sit next to him and compliment his artistry.  
   
Passing the refrigerator, Dean made a mental note to buy more magnets. And also maybe to find the kid something constructive to do that didn’t involve scribbling or splotching paint all over dead trees.  
   
Finally, the baked macaroni cooling safely out of the oven and the cookies safely in, Claire walked into the kitchen.  
   
She took one look at Castiel, bent over the kitchen table, one hand on Isaiah’s shoulder, another pointing over his painting, and did an abrupt about-face. But as she took a step towards the hallway, Castiel’s voice called her back.  
   
“Claire, please.”  
   
Slowly, indecision clearly warring on her face, Claire turned back. Castiel straightened.  
   
“Please,” he repeated. “There is—there is someone I want you to meet.” He tapped Isaiah lightly on the head. Isaiah blinked up at him, then turned to look towards the door. “This is Isaiah,” he said.  
   
Claire crossed her arms.  
   
Castiel’s shoulders stiffened, but he carried on. “Isaiah,” he said. “That’s Claire.” He pointed to her. “Can you say hello?”  
   
Clearly only marginally aware of the tension in the room, Isaiah considered her. After another nudge from Castiel, he waved but didn’t speak.  
   
Claire pressed her lips together. She raised one hand. “Yo.”  
   
Castiel’s hands twitched, like he didn’t know what to do with them. He cast a sidelong look at Dean, who sent him a shrug. Castiel let out a breath. “Thank you,” he said quietly.  
   
Claire regarded him for a moment, then with a scowl and a whirl of her hair, left the room.  
   
Sam leaned into Dean. “I feel like this was very anti-climactic.”  
   
“Your face is anti-climactic.”  
   
“Dude, that doesn’t even make sense,” Sam complained, while a neutral-faced Castiel began cleaning up the paints. He removed Isaiah’s paint-spattered smock, which was actually one of Dean’s old T-shirts, and watched as Isaiah jumped down to grab Jody by the hand and drag her out of the kitchen.  
   
“They grow up so fast,” said Dean, standing by Castiel’s elbow and wiping away a fake tear.  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said, without a trace of irony. “They do.”  
   
Dean cast a sidelong glance at him. “Cas?”  
   
“I think we should eat,” Castiel said, dumping the paints and the smock into their designated rubber tub.  
   
Dean watched him for a moment. Then with a sigh, he gathered up the macaroni. “Okay.” He raised his voice. “Sam, dinner!” he hollered.  
   
“Jesus Christ, Dean. I’m literally in the room with you.”  
   
“Oh, I know.” Dean flashed him a grin. “Just want to make sure you didn’t miss dinner.”  
   
After first checking to make sure that Isaiah wasn’t in the room, Sam flipped him off.  
   
“Rude,” Dean scoffed, brushing past him with the macaroni dish.  
   
When Dean got to the table, he half expected that Claire wouldn’t even be there. But, lo and behold, there she was, slouched in the chair as far away as possible from Isaiah’s booster seated one, arms crossed.  
   
“Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine,” Dean remarked, setting down the pasta. Castiel, trailing behind him, went to go help Jody corral Isaiah into his seat.  
   
Claire ignored him, though she did sniff the pasta with interest. Dean held out his hand.  
   
“Plate.”  
   
Accepting the plate that was handed to him, Dean piled on the macaroni, only handing it back when Claire said, “Okay, okay. That’s enough. You’re going to give me a heart attack if you make me eat that much cheese.”  
   
“That’s Sam’s line,” Dean told her, handing the plate back anyway. “Besides, it’s so good, it’s worth all those hospital bills.”  
   
“I’ll take some,” Jody said, handing him her own plate. “Smells good.”  
   
Castiel handed him Isaiah’s plate next, then switched with his. Finally, Dean served Sam, and then himself, sitting down with an air of satisfaction.  
   
“What are you guys waiting for?” he said, when he noticed that no one had taken a bite. “Eat!”  
   
Isaiah certainly didn’t need any encouragement. Despite his flagging appetite that morning, he was ravenous now.  
   
“Jesus, kid, slow down before you choke,” Dean said, meeting Castiel’s troubled expression over the top of Isaiah’s head with one of his own.  
   
“So, Claire,” Sam said, twirling the pasta on his plate with his fork “Uh, how’s school?”  
   
“Uh.” Claire focused on him, like she’d hadn’t just been staring as Isaiah nearly inhaled his helping. “Uh, school’s fine, I guess.” She lifted one shoulder, biting the inside of her cheek. “Learning is…fun?”  
   
“Oh,” said Sam. He rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh, what classes are you taking?”  
   
“Um.” Claire looked down at her plate. “I took a criminal justice course.”  
   
“Gonna start working for Jody?” Dean joked.  
   
“No.” She lifted her chin. “I thought it’d be useful for hunting.”  
   
Jody shrugged as Sam shot her a sideways glance.  
   
There was a pause, and then Dean muttered, “Right,” before attacking his meal with newfound vigor.  
   
“Daddy Dean,” Isaiah piped up. “I want more.”  
   
Sam spat out his water. Jody pounded him on the back.  
   
“Christ, kid,” Dean said, not missing a beat, though he did kick Sam under the table. “You got a hollow leg or something?”  
   
“Yes,” Isaiah said. “I’m hungry.”  
   
“I can see that.” After an exchange of glances with Castiel, he put a small amount of pasta on Isaiah’s plate, and handed it over. “Try eating that slower and let it settle before trying to eat us out of house and home.”  
   
“And drink your milk,” Castiel added, shaking the cup so that there was the slosh of liquid.  
   
“Okay,” Isaiah said, mouth full. With a sigh, Castiel came at him with a napkin, wiping the cheese off his face.  
   
Over at the other end of the table, Claire, who had been watching their negotiations, abruptly pushed her chair back. She stood, grabbing her plate. “Excuse, me,” she said, spinning on her heel and disappearing into the kitchen. There was the sound of the plate being deposited in the sink, and then the stomp of her footsteps as she disappeared into the rest of the bunker.  
   
“Okay?” said Sam, after a moment.  
   
Dean, casting a look over at Castiel, frozen on his right, was already getting to his feet, but Jody stayed him.  
   
“No,” she said. “Come on, let’s finish dinner at least. Let her go for now.”  
   
Dean pressed his lips together, but slid back down in his seat.  
   
“So…Jody,” Sam said, after another moment. “How’s, uh. How’s Alex doing?”  
   
   
   
#  
   
   
Dean finally found Claire on the roof of the bunker. She sat facing away from the entrance, resting her chin on the railing while her legs dangled off the edge. He let the heavy metal door creak closed behind him. Claire didn’t turn around.  
   
“You missed dessert,” he said. He walked over to her and sat, pulling out a chocolate chip cookie, waving it underneath her chin.  
   
“Go away.”  
   
“No. Eat your cookie.” He held it out for her.  
   
After a second’s hesitation, Claire accepted it. She took a sullen bite. “There,” she said. “Happy?”  
   
“Ecstatic.” Dean braced his hands and leaned back, looking up at the night sky. There were a few stars out, but not too many. The waning moon shone fitfully from behind a cloud. “So, I take it you’re still mad at Cas?” he asked eventually.  
   
Claire grunted.  
   
“Or do I sense some sibling rivalry?”  
   
At that, Claire whirled on him. “He is _not_ my brother,” she snapped, “because Castiel is _not_ my dad.”  
   
“Okay, okay.” Dean held up his hands. “Chill. I never said he was.”  
   
Claire glowered at him, before turning away to take a violent bite of her cookie. Dean waited.  
   
Claire sighed, drawing her knees up to her chest. “You don’t get it,” she said.  
   
“Yeah?” Dean turned to her. “What don’t I get?”  
   
“He’s not my dad,” she said again. “I could always tell the difference between them—it’s not like it’s hard.”  
   
“Uh huh.”  
   
“But he—every time he looks at that kid, the way he’s always,” her breath hitched, “like, helping him and stuff. It’s just…”  
   
“He reminds you,” Dean said, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He exhaled. “Cas looks at Isaiah like your dad looked at you.”  
   
Claire ducked her chin, dashing a hand across her eyes. “It’s stupid.”  
   
“Nah, kid. It’s fair. I get it.” Dean scratched his head. “Did Cas ever get around to explaining to you what happened? With Isaiah, I mean.”  
   
Mute, Claire shook her head.  
   
“It was after your dad had, uh,” Dean hesitated, then pushed on, “I mean, Cas had gotten exploded by angels like two separate times already, so your dad was long gone to Heaven at that point.”  
   
Claire gave him a look. Dean winced.  
   
“Okay, a lot of shit went down, but basically, Claire, Cas had amnesia.”  
   
Claire huffed. “What, you want me to feel bad for him now or something?”  
   
“No.” Dean let out a breath. “I’m just trying to tell you—when Isaiah was, uh…” he slowed, face going red.  
   
“Ew,” said Claire.  
   
“Yeah, okay. And when he was born, Cas had no idea he even existed. But after he found out? I mean, first he was totally freaked because of the whole having kids thing being forbidden and all, don’t get me wrong, but now?” Dean brushed off his hands, resting them on his knees. “He could’ve left that kid, and he didn’t. He’s really stepped up.”  
   
Claire snorted. “Oh, great,” she said. “I’m so glad that the angel riding around in my dad’s body has _stepped up_ for some kid I don’t even know. Thanks, Dean. Now you’ve really made me feel all better.” She turned her back on him, folding her arms around her knees as she drew them up to her chest.  
   
Dean’s jaw worked. He reached for her shoulder, shaking it. “Listen,” he said, voice sharp. “I get that you’re mad at Cas, okay? I get that you’re pissed because Isaiah’s getting everything you wanted from your dad, and Cas is the one giving it to him.” When Claire finally looked at him, mouth tight, he continued, “I get that you feel like he screwed up your family and then left you behind. I get it. Cas has left my ass in the dust more times than I can count, and even now sometimes I wake up thinking this is it. This is the day he’s going to leave, he’s going to take the kid and leave, and he’s not going to come back.”  
   
Claire stared at him.  
   
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cas has screwed up a hell of a lot,” he said. “But the thing is—” and here he offered her a wry twist of the lips, “—he always comes back. He’s always trying to fix things—the shit he screwed up. The people he screwed over.” Dean swallowed. “Every day I’ve gotta make that decision to trust him,” he said. “Every damn morning. Hell,” he said ruefully, “he probably does the same thing for me, too. Not like I’m blameless in all of this.”  
   
“No,” Claire said unexpectedly. “He doesn’t.” She rolled her eyes when Dean blinked at her. “Come on,” she said. “I was his vessel, remember?” She took a breath, her voice far away. “He was all faith, then,” she said. She made a disgusted face. “He’s all faith now. It’s just, weird and tangled and focused on you instead.”  
   
Dean grimaced at her. “Oh yeah? He tell you that?”  
   
“Oh my god,” Claire said. She kneaded her temples. “Just—what else were you saying?”  
   
With one last suspicious look, Dean let it go. He picked up the threads of his speech again. “What I’m trying to say is,” he said, “despite all of that, Cas is still family.” He licked his lips. “Isaiah is family.” As Claire’s scowl deepened, Dean’s voice gentled. He squeezed her shoulder. She jerked away and he let her go. Dropping his hand to his lap, Dean heaved a sigh “You don’t have a lot of family left,” he said. “Don’t throw it away when it comes to you on a silver platter.”  
   
Unwillingly, Claire’s eyes met Dean’s tired ones. An interminable moment later, she looked down at the ground, shoulders hunched.  
   
They sat there for a few minutes, Claire breathing steadily through her nose, Dean watching her.  
   
“Well,” Dean said, after the quiet began to grow pressing. With a groan, he pushed himself off the floor, knees creaking. “Just, uh. Think about it.” He gave her one last pat on the back, and headed for the door, tugging it open. “Goodnight,” he said. “I’ll, um. See you in the morning.”  
   
With that, he headed inside.  
   
Across the roof, Claire sat in stiff silence. When Dean had left, she blinked blurry eyes, wiping her hand across her cheek. “Night,” she whispered.  
   
   
#  
   
   
Castiel caught Dean as he made his way down from the roof. “Did you find her?” he asked. “Did you speak with her?”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean grabbed his arm as Castiel attempted to ascend the stairs. “No, man,” he said. “I talked to her, okay? Just give her some time.”  
   
“But.” Castiel cast a clearly torn look in the direction of the roof, but Dean shook his head.  
   
“Just trust me on this.”  
   
Castiel’s body sagged. “Very well.”  
   
They began to walk. Dean pulled off his jacket. “Did Isaiah go to bed?”  
   
“Theoretically.” Castiel pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I redrew the wards around his bedroom. I’ll be alerted if he crosses the threshold.”  
   
“Good.” They entered the kitchen, bypassing Sam and Jody in the main room, who were watching TV.  
   
“You find her?” Jody queried, as they passed.  
   
“Yeah.” Dean laid his jacket on the table. “She wasn’t too happy, but we talked, so who knows?”  
   
“Always worth a try,” Jody agreed, before turning back to the screen.  
   
In the kitchen, Castiel was picking at the cookies, trying to pull out the chocolate chips. Dean smacked his hand as he walked by.  
   
“Don’t do that.”  
   
“I like the chocolate.”  
   
“Then get some chocolate chips, don’t ruin the cookies.” Dean rummaged in the cupboard. “Do you want some coffee? I could do with some coffee.”  
   
“Dean, it’s almost nine o’clock. You don’t need coffee at this hour.”  
   
“Is that a no?”  
   
Castiel sat at the table with a grumble. “Fine.”  
   
Dean smirked but said nothing as he ground the beans and turned on the machine. He found a plate and piled several cookies onto it. When the coffee was done, he poured it into two mugs, and brought everything over to the kitchen table.  
   
“Here.” He pushed Castiel’s mug towards him. It was bright green with a giant chip on the rim and gold lettering that read ‘Corn County’. Castiel had found it at a rummage sale in Lebanon and refused to part with it. Dean loathed it with a passion and considered accidentally dropping it every time he did the dishes.  
   
“Thank you,” said Castiel. He lifted the mug and drank. Setting it down, he reached for a cookie.  
   
Dean quickly spun the plate around. “Take your damaged ones,” he instructed.  
   
Castiel’s mouth turned down, but he complied anyway. Dean tried on a grin, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He stared down at the coffee.  
   
What was it he had said to Claire? Every day he made a choice?  
   
“Dean?” Castiel ventured, after a minute or two of silence.  
   
Dean’s grip on the coffee mug tightened. “You know, my dad was a marine,” he said, apropos of nothing.  
   
Castiel eyed him cautiously. Dean’s father, he had learned, was always a sensitive subject. “Yes?”  
   
“I think he considered himself a real man’s man,” Dean continued, head still bowed. He huffed out a laugh. “Course, _now_ , people would call bullshit on all that crap.” He looked up. “But growing up with him? It was important.”  
   
“Okay.” Castiel drew his eyebrows together. “You know, Dean,” he said, “the concept of masculinity—”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said, exasperated. “I’m trying to get to something here.”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel sat back in his chair. “My apologies.”  
   
Dean took a slurp of his coffee. “Anyway,” he said, setting it down, “sometimes I wonder what he would’ve thought about me. What, with all the shit that I pull. Sammy too, I guess.” He grabbed the mug again, but didn’t drink. “But more recently, you know, I really don’t care? Man’s dead, after all.”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel nodded.  
   
Dean’s mouth contorted. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.  
   
Castiel stilled. “Thinking.”  
   
“Yeah, thinking.”  
   
“About?” Castiel said guardedly.  
   
Dean sucked in a breath. He abruptly stood from his chair, looming over Castiel, who met his eyes evenly.  
   
“I don’t think my dad would’ve thought I was much of a man’s man,” Dean said. “I think he would’ve thought I was a shit man and a shit hunter.”  
   
“Dean, you’re not either of those things.” Castiel’s face was serious.  
   
“Yeah, well.” Dean slid his coffee mug away from him, to the other side of the table. “You didn’t know my dad. But,” and here he leaned on his elbows across the table, “you know what?”  
   
“What?”  
   
Dean stretched the last few inches to kiss Castiel hard on the mouth. He withdrew, color high in his cheeks as Castiel gaped up at him.  “I don’t fucking care anymore,” he said. “I really, really don’t.”  
   
“What?” Castiel’s fingers tightened on the edge of the chair. “Dean, what are you saying?”  
   
Dean’s throat worked. “I want to kiss you, Cas,” he said. “I want you to kiss me. I want—” his voice broke, and his shoulders hunched. “I want _everything_ , and I know, I shouldn’t, I don’t deserve it, I shouldn’t want it, but—”  
   
Castiel’s mouth trembled. He touched Dean’s cheek. Dean closed his eyes. “Dean,” said Castiel, like a man in a daze. He gripped Dean’s hand and tugged, pulling Dean down and into his embrace. Dean tumbled down on top of him. Castiel let go of Dean’s hand to cradle his face, foreheads touching. “I chose you,” he said, as they breathed together. “I chose all of you. Do not malign yourself so.”  
   
“I—” Dean stuttered. “Cas—” He immediately lost his train of thought as Castiel drew him into a kiss.  
   
“You don’t have to say it, Dean,” Castiel said, as they separated, breathing harshly in the quiet of the kitchen.  
   
“No, Cas, I,” Dean gulped, “you _know_.”  
   
“I know.” Castiel gently ran a hand through Dean’s hair. “I would not have fallen for anything less.”  
   
“You could’ve done better.”  
   
Castiel gripped him tighter. “Like I said,” he murmured. “I made my choice. I do not regret it.”  
   
They stayed like that for a little while, Castiel trapped in the chair, Dean sprawled over him. The moment felt delicate, as if the instant they moved positions, the entire illusion would come shattering down on them. Castiel continued to run his fingers through Dean’s hair. Dean tried to calm his wildly beating heart.  
   
“Where do we…” Dean stopped. Tried again. “Where do we go from here?”  
   
Castiel paused. “Where do you want to go from here?”  
   
Twisting his head to look up at him, Dean shrugged. “This is new to me,” he admitted, playing a little with the edge of Castiel’s sleeve. He let out a breath. “I mean, really new.”  
   
Castiel made a noise of agreement. “We don’t have to have sex,” he reminded Dean, who immediately went bright red. “Not tonight. Nor ever, if you don’t want.”  
   
“I mean,” Dean said, strangled. “That’s not.” He covered his eyes with his palm. “Cas!”  
   
Castiel tilted his head. “I’m being honest.”  
   
“Yes,” Dean sighed. “Yes, you are.” He sat up, struggling off of Castiel’s lap. When he was finally standing, he extended a hand. “Why don’t we go check on Isaiah,” he suggested. “And then we can, um.” He bit his lip.  
   
“Talk some more?”  
   
“Yes.” Dean nodded. “About this. And things. In my room. Or—or yours.”  
   
Castiel examined Dean’s hand for a moment, then accepted it. “Very well,” he said, as Dean pulled him to his feet.  
   
There was the slight issue of getting by Sam and Jody without incurring any suspicion. Dean tried to convey that they should go separately, with an appropriately timed break in between. Castiel just looked at him like he was an idiot, grabbed his hand, and marched through the doorway, dragging Dean along behind him.  
   
Sam and Jody didn’t even notice.  
   
Castiel’s grip was strong, Dean thought, a little breathlessly. And his hand was warm, of course. Dean hoped he wasn’t sweating too noticeably. They went past the bathroom, where Dean spied a crate of bath toys precariously balanced on the edge of the tub. He made a mental note to remember not to knock them over tomorrow morning, though he knew he probably would anyway.  
   
“I was going to put them away,” Castiel said, following his gaze. “I just—I suppose I was distracted tonight. Sorry.”  
   
“Nah, it’s okay.” Dean shrugged. “I can get them tomorrow. It’s not a—” he stopped, noticing a light underneath Isaiah’s door. “Cas?” he said slowly. “Did you leave a light on in Isaiah’s room?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes widened. He let go of Dean’s hand and strode forward, brushing past the wards and pushing open the door. He froze in the doorway. “Dean,” he choked out.  
   
Immediately Dean was next to him. Like Castiel, as soon as he spotted Isaiah, he stopped, his mouth dropping open.  
   
Isaiah was—and there was no other word for it— _floating_ a few inches above his bed. His eyes were still shut and he was clearly asleep, but his whole body was again bathed in that eerie blue light. As Dean watched, a pained expression crossed Isaiah’s face. He stiffened, making a slight whimpering noise as if he were having a nightmare. His cheeks were covered in dried tear tracks.  
   
Dean felt as though his heart were seizing in his chest. He twisted to look at Castiel. “Cas,” he whispered. “What’s happening to him?”  
   
“I don’t,” Castiel said, eyes following his child. He turned to Dean, his face pale and shaken. “I don’t know.”  
   
Dean drew in a steadying breath as Castiel carefully stepped over the threshold and approached Isaiah. Mindful of what had happened the last time he’d tried to touch the kid when he was glowing, Dean stayed near the door, watching as Castiel gripped Isaiah by the shoulders, trying to force him back down onto the mattress. Isaiah cried out, and Castiel answered him in Enochian. Despite the roughness of the language, Castiel’s voice was deep and soothing. Dean found his hands clenching on the doorframe.  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel said. “Isaiah. _Solpeth adagita ol._ Isaiah!”  
   
Isaiah whined, spasming in his grip. Castiel’s mouth tightened. “ _Beregida nor en,”_ he murmured. _“Beregida, Isaiah.”_  
   
With Castiel’s steady encouragement, bit by bit, the light around Isaiah’s body faded. He lowered down into the mattress, his breathing deep and calm. Castiel straightened, letting go of him, and collapsing in the chair left by his bedside. Dean finally convinced his legs to move forward.  
   
“He sleeps,” Castiel said, voice haggard. He startled when Dean laid a hand on his shoulder, tensing momentarily before accepting the touch   
   
Dean hesitated, then brushed his other hand across Isaiah’s forehead, moving his sweaty bangs away from his face. He frowned. “He feels hot.”  
   
Instantly, Castiel’s hand was feeling for Isaiah’s temperature as well. “You’re right,” he said. He stretched out his hand over Isaiah, a light shimmering from his palm. Isaiah mumbled something and turned over. Castiel’s mouth tightened, the light at his palm fading away. He looked up at Dean. “I don’t,” he said helplessly. “I can’t heal him, Dean. What do I—what do I do?”  
   
Dean bit his lip, crouching down next to Castiel. “Maybe it’s just a leftover from the glowing thing,” he said. He felt Isaiah’s forehead again. This time, Isaiah stirred a little at the touch. “It doesn’t feel too bad. He’s just a little flushed. We’ll see if it’s resolved itself by morning. If not…” he trailed off.  
   
“If not?”  
   
Trying to sound reassuring, Dean said, “It probably will. But if not, we can take his temperature and stuff, try to find something that’ll bring it down.”  
   
Castiel nodded. “Okay,” he said quietly. He looked at Isaiah, then back at Dean. “Dean, I know we were going to,” he began, but Dean cut him off.  
   
“No, Cas,” he said. “I get it. This is more important.”  
   
Castiel bowed his head. “I need to stay with him.”  
   
“Yeah, I got that,” Dean said. The hint of a smile flickered over his face. He settled himself cross-legged on the floor, leaning against Castiel’s chair. “I’ll stay with you.”  
   
“Dean, you should sleep.”  
   
“Says who?”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
“I’ll sleep when I’m tired.” Dean crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow as he tilted his head up at Castiel. “Deal?”  
   
Castiel heaved a sigh. “Fine.”  
   
Castiel sounded irritated, but Dean figured he knew him well enough to tell when he was just being dramatic. He was proven correct a minute later, when Castiel moved his hand down off his lap, letting it hang off the side of the chair until Dean enfolded it in his own.  
   
Together, they watched over Isaiah’s sleep.  
   
   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian translations:  
> (“Listen to me”)  
> (“Sleep, my son.”)  
> (“Sleep, Isaiah”)


	10. Chapter 10

Dean stumbled into the kitchen at an unholy hour, making straight for the coffee machine. He was followed in short order by a bleary Castiel and a restless Isaiah, who refused to be put down, instead clutching Castiel’s shoulders for all he was worth, and making snuffling noises into his neck.  
   
Not even bothering to ask if Castiel wanted some, Dean yawned through the process of making the coffee, and brought two mugs over to the table. Castiel nodded his thanks, lifting his arm so that Isaiah could burrow underneath it and grabbing the mug with his free hand.  
   
Dean examined Castiel’s face over the rim of his mug.  
   
“You look terrible.”  
   
Castiel closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair. “I’ve depleted much of my grace.”  
   
“Will it come back?”  
   
“Eventually.” Castiel took a sip of his coffee, grimacing. “In the interim,” he lifted his mug, “this will have to do.”  
   
Dean made a wry face of agreement.  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel said, looking down. “Are you hungry?”  
   
Isaiah shook his head, squirming deeper into Castiel’s embrace. Frowning, Castiel placed a hand on his forehead.  
   
“I think his fever is gone,” Castiel said. “Feel.”  
   
Dean reached out. “Seems like,” he said. He smiled at Isaiah, though the lines in his forehead remained creased. “Lucky break, kid.”  
   
Isaiah let out a discontented mumble. He opened one eye to peer at Dean. When Dean winked at him, Isaiah’s mouth inched up, before he turned away to bury his head in Castiel’s stomach.  
   
“Someone’s going to need a very long nap today,” Castiel observed, hand patting lightly on Isaiah’s back. Clearly still paying enough attention to his surroundings to hear the word ‘nap’, Isaiah whined something that might have been a reply. Dean snickered.  
   
“Who, us?”  
   
Castiel rolled his eyes at him.  
   
“What?” Dean said. “I could use a nap too, you know.”  
   
“I thought you only needed four hours.”  
   
“Well, that’s four less than I got last night.”  
   
“I suppose.”  
   
There was the sound of footsteps, and they both turned to see Jody standing in the doorway. She cinched her bathrobe more tightly around her body, and covered a yawn.  
   
“Good morning, boys,” she said. “You’re up early.”  
   
“Or very, very late,” Dean sighed.  
   
Jody placed her hands on her hips. “Long night?”  
   
“Oh yeah.” Dean finished off his coffee and rose, making his way back towards the coffee machine. “You ever deal with a glow-in-the-dark kid?” he said. “Let me tell you, not helpful for getting a good night’s sleep. Coffee?”  
   
“I can imagine,” Jody said dryly. She pulled down a mug from the cupboard. “And yes, please.”  
   
Dean poured the coffee for her. “We haven’t started breakfast yet,” he said. “Any requests?”  
   
“I’ll eat whatever you make,” Jody said. She sat down at the table in Dean’s vacated seat. “Morning, Castiel.”  
   
“Good morning, Jody.”  
   
“Hey, what makes you think I’m going to be the one who’s cooking?” Dean complained.  
   
Jody grinned at him. Dean scowled, even as he turned on the stove and went to the refrigerator for some eggs.  
   
“Is that Isaiah you have there?”  
   
Castiel glanced down at the child in his lap, as if he’d forgotten he was even there. “I think he fell asleep.”  
   
“Must’ve had a rough night.”  
   
“It was not ideal.”  
   
“It was far from ideal,” Dean put in. He started cracking eggs, adding a little milk and cheese to the mixture. “We really need to figure something out.” He beat the eggs more forcefully than necessary. “At least his fever’s gone.”  
   
“He had a fever?” Jody pursed her lips. “Maybe you need to take him to the doctor.”  
   
“That’s the thing,” Dean said. “If Cas can’t heal him, what’s a regular doctor going to be able to do?”  
   
Jody’s eyes went wide. “Cas?”  
   
Castiel bowed his head, avoiding her gaze. “I could do nothing but sooth him,” he said quietly. “It was…it was an unpleasant feeling.” He blinked up in surprise when he felt Jody’s hand on top of his, her expression full of sadness.  
   
“I know,” she said. “I know what it’s like to feel that.” She squeezed his hand and then let go. “You’ve just got to keep telling yourself that he’s better off with you there, even if, in the end, there’s nothing you can do.”  
   
Castiel bit his lip. “Thank you,” he said.  
   
Dean came over with the skillet. “Who wants some eggs?”  
   
“I’ll take some,” Jody said, clearing her throat. “I need a plate though.”  
   
“Here.” Sam, who had just came in, handed her a stack.  
   
“Whoa, where did you come from?”  
   
“Through the doorway, Dean,” Sam deadpanned. He rubbed at his eyes.  
   
“Funny,” Dean told him. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the counter. “There’s coffee.”  
   
“Great.” Sam shambled over and poured himself a mug. His back resting against the counter, he took a long drink.  
   
Dean pointed the spatula at him. “Why do you look so tired?”  
   
“Why do you?” Sam shot back.  
   
“Was up watching Isaiah all night.”  
   
His brow furrowed, Sam said, “Was he doing the glowy thing again? He didn’t go outside, did he?”  
   
“Not this time.” Dean handed him a plate of eggs. “He did do a fancy levitation trick though. That was new.”  
   
Sam swiveled to Castiel, who dipped his head. “He also had a fever, but it seems to be gone for now.”  
   
“Jesus.” Sam passed his hand over his eyes. “Well, after Jody went to bed, I was researching all night. I might’ve found something interesting.”  
   
As soon as the words left his mouth, all eyes were on him. Castiel let his fork drop to the table.  
   
“Interesting?” he said, voice sharp. “Interesting how?”  
   
“Well.” Sam put his coffee aside, and drew a piece of paper out of his pocket. It was marked over with scribbles and splotches, half of them crossed out. “I’ve been translating some of the stuff in that book, and I found this passage.” He cleared his throat. “‘ _And it was in the time of Enoch, who walked with Him, there grew a rift between Rami and Asahel, who was his kinsman_.” Sam looked up. “It kind of cuts off after that,” he said. “But it picks up again, um. ‘ _And Rami bade Asahel to go with him in his vengeance against the sons of Hem, but Asahel refused, for his blood did not sing as Rami’s did, and there was none of the madness of the Giants in him, though he was of Asael’s line.’”_  
   
The kitchen was quiet for a moment.  
   
“That’s uh,” said Sam. He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s the first mention there’s been of one of the nephilim who wasn’t, uh, bad. The rest of it’s just what Rami did to whoever the sons of Hem were. Poor bastards.” He looked a little nauseous. “There’s nothing else I could find about Asahel, though. Just him refusing to go pick a fight or whatever.”  
   
Castiel had closed his eyes, head tilted back as if in remembrance. “Asael was one of the Watchers. Like Tamiel.”  
   
Sam nodded. “I cross-checked with the Book of Enoch. He’s definitely listed in there.”  
   
“If he fathered this Asahel dude and Asahel got along all right, then that’s at least something,” Dean said. His eyes narrowed. “We need to find more stuff on this guy.”  
   
“I’m sorry, Dean.” Sam gestured to his paper. “That’s the only passage in the book that talks about him.”  
   
Castiel’s voice was firm. “We will search the rest of the library. If we find nothing there, then we will look elsewhere.” He raised his chin. “I will not stop until we have found something that can help Isaiah.”  
   
“I can help, too,” said Jody. She scoffed when Sam and Dean looked at her. “What? I know how to research.”  
   
“Yeah, okay,” Dean said. He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought, then glanced over to Castiel. “Cas, do you think Isaiah will be okay on the couch?”  
   
“He’s sleeping now.” Castiel pursed his lips. “I think whatever happens to him at night must be equally exhausting for him as it is for us. The same set-up as before should suffice.”  
   
“If he wakes up and suddenly has a lot of energy, we’ll figure out some way to distract him,” Sam said. He put his plate in the sink. “Might as well get something done this morning, when we have the quiet.”  
   
Dean poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “Nothing like a day full of research,” he sighed, toasting them with it. Castiel held out his own mug wordlessly, and Dean reached over to fill it as well. “I’m going to go get the couch set up.” Dean jerked his head in the direction of the door. “Cas, feel free to bring him in whenever you’re ready.”  
   
Castiel favored him with a smile. “I will. Thank you, Dean.”  
   
Sam turned to Jody. “What about Claire?”  
   
Jody shrugged. “If she doesn’t want to research, I can’t really make her. Honestly, I doubt she’ll be up before noon, anyway.”  
   
“Yeah, teenagers, am I right?” Dean said. He blinked as Jody, Sam, and Castiel all slowly swiveled to look at him. “What?”  
   
“Go set up the couch, Dean,” Castiel said.  
   
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean plunked his mug down on the counter. “I’m going.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
The morning dragged into afternoon. The books and scrolls seemed both endless and useless. Isaiah awoke only once, and that was to go to the bathroom, before conking out again. Castiel’s mouth grew thinner with every passing hour.  
   
Finally, Dean threw down his pen with a huff. “Man, this is getting us nowhere,” he said, rubbing his temples. “There’s nothing here about the nephilim.”  
   
“There are still more sections.” Castiel came over and dumped another set of tomes in front of him. “You take the English ones. We will go faster that way.”  
   
Scowling, Dean opened his mouth to give that the response it deserved, when a small voice interrupted them.  
   
“Daddy?”  
   
Dean’s mouth snapped shut. Isaiah was sitting up on the couch, rubbing his eyes. Castiel went over to him.  
   
“Yes? What do you need, Isaiah?”  
   
Rather pitifully, Isaiah said, “Daddy, I’m hungry.”  
   
Lunch had been haphazardly microwaved leftover macaroni more than an hour ago, but Isaiah had managed to sleep straight through it. Dean gave the book in front of him a look of disgust, and got to his feet. Castiel was folding the blanket while Isaiah huddled against him.  
   
“If you’re hungry, perhaps you should ask your…” Castiel hesitated, then said firmly, “your Daddy Dean if he can make some lunch for you.”  
   
At that suggestion, Isaiah perked up. He got up on his knees and peeked over the back of the couch at Dean.  
   
“Daddy Dean?” said Isaiah.  
   
“Yeah?” said Dean, after a moment of pretending that everything was fine and normal and his heart wasn’t beating like, a thousand times per minute. He studiously ignored Jody, who was covering her manic grin with one hand, and Sam, who wasn’t even bothering to hide his. “What can I do you for?”  
   
“Daddy Dean, will you make me some lunch?”  
   
“Some lunch, huh?” Dean smiled at him. “What would you want lunch for?”  
   
“Because I’m hungry,” Isaiah said sensibly, a little wrinkle in his brow.  
   
“Oh, I see.” Dean nodded. He extended his hand. “Well, come on and let’s see what we have in the kitchen.”  
   
Isaiah’s look of glee as he prepared to leap over the couch, morphed quickly into a look of deep displeasure as Castiel held on to the back of his shirt and said, very firmly, “Go around.”  
   
Jody made a suspicious coughing noise as, with a sigh, Isaiah slid of the couch and padded over to Dean, resplendent in his disappointment and footie pajamas. He took Dean’s hand, and Dean led him into the kitchen.  
   
Isaiah didn’t want macaroni, so Dean was forced to defrost some of the frozen chicken nuggets he’d bought last week. He’d mostly picked them because they were dinosaur shaped, and even though Castiel had deemed them ‘ridiculous’ and ‘inaccurate’, Dean secretly thought they were hilarious.  
   
While Isaiah was munching on his dino-nuggets—biting off the heads first of course, just how Dean had showed him—Dean contemplated brewing another cup of coffee. He was starting to get a bit jittery though. Maybe he could get away with crashing on the couch for an hour with Isaiah? Dean pursed his lips.  
   
“Daddy Dean?”  
   
Dean glanced up. Isaiah had mostly finished his lunch, and was now swinging his legs at the table. “Yeah?”  
   
“I’m bored.”  
   
The response was nearly automatic this time. Dean wasn’t sure if he should be proud or disturbed. “I thought you were Isaiah.”  
   
Isaiah was less than amused. “Daddy _Dean_.”  
   
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”  
   
Isaiah stuck his lip out at him, crossing his arms.  
   
With a snort, Dean relented. “Okay, what do you want to do?”  
   
Big mistake. Isaiah’s eyes brightened.  
   
“I want to go to the park!”  
   
“Uh,” said Dean, now looking guiltily back in the direction of the war room and all the research he was neglecting. “I don’t know if today’s a really good day to go to the park.”  
   
“But I want to.”  
   
“Yeah, you told me.” Dean thought fast. “What about just playing outside a little bit? We could play with the soccer ball again.”  
   
“Just outside doesn’t have the swings,” Isaiah said, looking at him like Dean was a total idiot.  
   
It was the puppy-dog eyes that did it. Dean was really going to have to speak to Sam about his poor influences. In the meantime, Dean took the coward’s way out. He pulled back Isaiah’s chair, and let him hop down.  
   
“Why don’t you go ask your, uh, other daddy if it’s okay if you go to the park?”  
   
Isaiah was out of the kitchen so fast that for a moment, Dean feared he’d inherited Castiel’s wings, on top of everything else.  
   
Feeling a little bad for setting a determined Isaiah on an unsuspecting Castiel, Dean took his time cleaning up the dishes. When he did make his way back to the other room, it was to the sight of a thoroughly hopped up Isaiah, bouncing from foot to foot in front of an increasingly frustrated Castiel.  
   
“Daddy, I want to go to the park.”  
   
“Yes, you’ve said that already, Isaiah. But today’s not a good day. You were feeling very poorly this morning. I don’t want you to get sick again.”  
   
“I don’t feel sick.”  
   
“That’s because you were resting. If you go to the park, you won’t be resting.”  
   
As soon as Dean reappeared in the doorway, Isaiah changed tactics. “Daddy Dean said I could go.”  
   
“Whoa now,” said Dean, putting up his hands as Castiel’s displeased expression zoomed in on him. “Let’s not exaggerate. I said you could _ask Cas_ if you could go.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel sighed.  
   
Jody cleared her throat. “I think you should go.”  
   
As one, Castiel and Dean swung to face her.  
   
“I think you should go,” Jody repeated. She didn’t look up from the book she was reading, instead speaking down to the dusty pages and splotched ink. “It’s only an hour or two. Sam and I will keep working.”  
   
“But—” said Castiel.  
   
Jody glanced up. Her expression was unusually somber. “Believe me,” she said. “I wish—” she broke off, took a breath, then said, “I wish I had taken the time for an hour or two.” She looked down again. “Take your son to the park, Castiel.”  
   
Castiel eyed her for another long moment, then gave a decisive nod.  
   
Within twenty minutes, Isaiah was dressed, and the three of them were out the door and in the impala, driving toward Lebanon Elementary.  
   
   
#  
   
   
As soon as Dean parked the car, Isaiah was clamoring to get out. Castiel couldn’t help him remove his seatbelt fast enough. He made to bolt for the play structure, but Castiel held onto his arm. “Wait,” he said. Once Dean had turned off the ignition and had closed his own door, Castiel let go. “Be careful!” he called, as Isaiah raced to the swings.  
   
“Man,” Dean said, watching him. “It’s like he’s a completely different kid.”  
   
His eyes still on Isaiah, Castiel didn’t respond. Dean waited for a moment, then with a shrug, began to lead him to a bench. They both sat.  
   
“Jody was right,” Castiel said eventually. “It’s good to give him this time.” He shook his head. “I’ve been so—so concerned that I’d forgotten.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said. “It’s okay, man. You’re allowed to be worried.”  
   
They watched Isaiah play for a while. He was pretty good at the swings, but he had trouble with climbing the fire pole. No problems going down it though. Dean allowed himself a grin. Next to him, Castiel let out a breath.  
   
“It’s different,” he said.  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“It’s as if…” Castiel pressed his lips together, then shifted to look at Dean. “When I would worry for you—or even for your brother, I knew that even without my interference, the two of you were well capable of taking care of yourselves.” His mouth twisted. “For two humans.”  
   
“Thank you,” said Dean. He frowned. “I think.”  
   
“But Isaiah,” Castiel continued. “He’s…” he made a gesture towards the play structure. “He’s helpless without us, Dean.” He looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. “I suppose I still have difficulty accepting that we are the best ones to raise him. Especially in this life.”  
   
Submitting to what Dean was reasonably sure was some kind of in the moment inevitability, he reached out to take Castiel’s hand. “Cas, you’re doing awesome, okay?”  
   
When Castiel continued to look doubtful, Dean exhaled.  
   
“Look,” he said. “Isaiah’s not a normal kid. So why should he have normal parents? The stuff we know? Might even save his life one day. Besides,” Dean let the corner of his mouth twitch up, “I’m pretty sure that kid’s had a better childhood in a couple of months than Sam and I did in a couple of years.”  
   
Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I do not believe that your childhood is the best metric, Dean.”  
   
“Oh, come on.” Dean bumped his shoulder. “Sam and I turned out all right.”  
   
“You sold your soul to hell and your brother was a vessel for the devil.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean complained, “you’re focusing on all the negativity, here.”  
   
“You also—” Castiel paused. He looked up at the sky, which was beginning to cloud over.  
   
“Bummer,” said Dean, glancing up as well. A sudden cold wind blew through the trees, rattling the branches. “Looks like it’s going to rain.”  
   
Castiel’s eyebrows drew together. “That’s not,” he began, and then his face went pale and his eyes went wide. “Dean!”  
   
“What—”  
   
The strike of white light took them both by surprise. Half-blinded, Dean immediately rolled off the bench while next to him, Castiel took off with the crack of wings and the acrid smell of ozone. On the ground, Dean reached for the knife in his coat. He leaped to his feet, looking around wildly.  
   
The playground, which only a minute ago had been full of sunlight and children, was now empty. Castiel, who must have attempted to fly to Isaiah as soon as he realized what was happening, was being restrained by no less than three angels, two holding him, and a third with a blade to his throat.  
   
Isaiah stood untouched next to the slide, his eyes wide as another angel stepped in front of him, her blade out.  
   
He was glowing again, a faint, flickering blue.  
   
Dean immediately sprinted towards them.  
   
“Get away from him, you son of a bitch!”  
   
“Enough!” the angel in front of Isaiah commanded. Without even bothering to glance in Dean’s direction, she held out her palm. Dean immediately felt all of his joints lock up. Less than three feet away from them, he froze, hand outstretched towards Isaiah.  
   
The angel paid him no more attention. Instead, she turned to Castiel, whose mouth was tight with fury. Her brown eyes flashed. “Castiel,” she said. “What have you done?”  
   
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I have done nothing wrong.”  
   
“And what do you call that?” With the tip of her sword, she pointed to Isaiah. It was close enough that when the angel blade made contact with the blue field around him, sparks flew. Isaiah whimpered.  
   
Castiel glared. “A child.”  
   
“Don’t be obtuse, Castiel. I can see what he is. We can _all_ see what he is.” She gestured to the other angels and their grip on Castiel tightened.  
   
“Yes,” said Castiel, “and what he is, is a _child._ One whom you are frightening.”  
   
“He is an abomination!” she snapped. “That law has been in effect for ten thousand years, Castiel. You know as well as I he will not always be a child. What happens when he is grown—if he even manages to make it that far? Will you raise a killer in your house?”  
   
“What are you talking about?” Castiel said through gritted teeth. He began to struggle, but stilled when the angel blade pressed against his throat, drawing a drop of grace. Seeing this, Isaiah began to cry. The light around him grew brighter. Castiel made an involuntary movement towards him, but was halted by his captors. His hands fisted at his sides.  
   
“Isaiah,” he said, his voice a deep growl. “Get away from her.”  
   
But whether it was due to fear or something else, Isaiah was clearly immobile. Dean again attempted to reach for him, but all he could move was the tips of his fingers, though the feeling was coming back into his hand.  
   
The angel paused. She looked closer at Castiel, the rage beneath his skin, and her expression turned to one of pity. She tilted her head. “You have developed a fondness for this…thing,” she said. “Even you, Castiel. I would never have imagined.”  
   
“Do not call him that.”  
   
Her nostrils flared. “You see yourself as his father.”  
   
“He is my son,” Castiel ground out.  
   
“And therein lies your arrogance!” She pointed at him. “Like the grigori, you have turned your back on Heaven. Like them, you have defiled yourself with women and done as the children of the earth do.” Her expression turned grim. “The nephilim were all cursed, and they nearly destroyed the earth with their rampages.”  
   
“That was a different time,”  
   
“The issue is the same.” She shook her head. “You should be glad that I will prevent him from doing as they did.”  
   
“It is not the same. I will not allow it.”  
   
“You cannot stop it, Castiel.” The pity was back in her voice. “It has already begun, and well you know it.” She turned her sword on Isaiah. “The very grace you have given him will be his undoing. Already his mortal shell is too weak to contain it.”  
   
Castiel set his jaw. “Please.”  
   
The angel pursed her lips. “Even if he survives the grace burning him from within, it will eventually drive him mad,” she said. She looked at him curiously. “Do you not prefer that I spare him that suffering?”  
   
“If you touch a single hair on his head,” Castiel said, cold as ice, “I will not hesitate.” Their gazes locked. Castiel’s eyes burned. “You know what I am capable of.”  
   
She stiffened, and then lifted her chin. “No, Castiel,” she said. “Given the evidence before me, I’m not sure what level of debasement you are ultimately capable of reaching.” She turned her back on him and faced Isaiah, who stood stock still in front of her, tears streaming down his face, lip trembling. She began to raise her blade.  
   
On the other side of them, the feeling in Dean’s arms had finally returned, though his legs were still bolted tight. He took a steadying breath. “Hey bitch!” he shouted. She stopped. As she turned to frown at him, Dean took his chance. Using all the strength he could muster, he threw Ruby’s knife at her, and she moved to toss it aside with a flick of her fingers.  
   
It was enough for Castiel.  
   
With the three angels holding him momentarily distracted by Dean, Castiel wrenched out of their hold. He immediately went for the one holding the blade to his neck, grappling for it, and ultimately slicing the other angel straight across the belly. He gripped the stolen blade in one hand, and pulled out his own with the other. He advanced on the other two.  
   
The attention of the angel about to cut down Isaiah now diverted to Castiel, Dean suddenly found that he could move again. He wasted no time, sprinting forward and grabbing Isaiah, heedless of the blue light surrounding him. Oddly enough, there was no shock that time. With Isaiah in his arms, he spun around, kicking the angel as he did so. It was like kicking a rock wall.  
   
Dean swore. Eying the blade in her hand, and now very conscious of his own unarmed state, he began to back away, clutching Isaiah to him.  
   
The angel favored him a mildly irritated look. “I will not hesitate to kill you as well, Winchester,” she said, raising her blade again.  
   
Spotting movement behind her, Dean froze. He clapped a hand over Isaiah’s eyes and turned away to hide him. The angel’s expression contorted, Castiel’s blade sliding between her ribs and into her from behind.  
   
“I told you,” Castiel hissed in her ear, as her eyes rolled back and white light spilled, “not to touch my son.”  
   
He pulled the blade out in one smooth motion, letting her fall to the ground. Hearing her fall, Dean peeked over his shoulder. Seeing Castiel still standing, he turned back the rest of the way.  
   
Across her body and the charcoal imprint of wings, Dean and Castiel stared at each other. Another moment, and the angel blade dropped from Castiel’s slack grip. Two quick steps and he was in front of Dean, yanking him into a kiss, and then enfolding Dean and Isaiah into a tight embrace.  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel breathed. “Dean. I thought—” he buried his face in Dean’s shoulder.  
   
“Fuck,” Dean said. “Fuck, Cas.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel whispered. He leaned back and looked at Isaiah, who had his face hidden in Dean’s chest. “Isaiah,” he choked, reaching out.  
   
“Cas,” Dean said, his voice serious. Dean’s hand was touching Isaiah’s cheek. “Cas, feel him.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“His fever’s back. He’s burning up.”  
   
“No,” Castiel said weakly. “Dean…”  
   
Dean hoisted a still-sobbing Isaiah in his arms, and then transferred him over to Castiel, whose arms opened automatically to receive him. Isaiah clung to him, his face and tears hot. Dean didn’t exactly have a thermometer on him, but he was willing to bet that Isaiah’s temperature was way higher than it had any right to be, definitely worse than last night.  
   
“We need to get him back to the bunker,” Dean said. “Come on.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
The ride back to the bunker was a blur. On the way, Dean called Sam, while Castiel sat in the back seat with Isaiah, trying to keep him calm. When they reached the bunker and raced inside, they were met by Sam and Jody.  
   
“I ran the water,” Sam said, as they banged through the door and headed for the bathroom. “Get his clothes off, get him in the bath.”  
   
“No!” Isaiah screamed, twisting in Castiel’s grip. Castiel held on tighter, smoothing his palms over Isaiah’s face, rubbing his back, trying to calm him.  
   
“Fuck the clothes,” Dean said. “Just put him in!”  
   
“Jesus,” said Jody, when she caught sight of Isaiah’s red and blotchy face. “Did you take his temperature?”  
   
“Sam!” Dean barked, kneeling down at the side of the tub, trying to get Isaiah to detach from Castiel and into the water.  
   
“On it,” said Sam, pawing through the cupboards in search of the thermometer.  
   
Castiel was murmuring to Isaiah as he squeezed a washcloth in the lukewarm bathwater and gently began to sponge him off. “We need to lower your fever,” he said, while Isaiah wailed. “Shhh.”  
   
“Here.” Sam slapped the thermometer into Dean’s hand and stood back. Dean nodded his thanks.  
   
“Isaiah,” he said, dropping down to the floor again. Isaiah looked at him tearfully, eyes rimmed red. “Kiddo, I need to take your temperature. Can you open your mouth for me?”  
   
Clearly reluctantly, though starting to calm somewhat from Castiel’s gentle motions, Isaiah did so. Dean stuck the thermometer in, and popped Isaiah’s mouth shut with a cluck to the chin. When the thermometer beeped, he took it out again, swearing at the number.  
   
“How high is it?” Castiel asked.  
   
“Almost one hundred and four,” Dean answered, reaching around and putting it on the edge of the sink. He turned to look at Isaiah. “It’s just not your day is it, kiddo?” Isaiah shook his head vigorously and began to cry again in earnest. Dean ran his fingers through Isaiah’s hair.  
   
Castiel’s face was pale, but his expression resolute. “How long should he stay in the bath?”  
   
“Until it goes down a little, I guess.” Dean made a helpless gesture with his hands. “Not like giving him aspirin is going to do anything. Don’t let the water get cold, though. And we’ve gotta take him out if he starts to shiver.”  
   
“Of course.” Castiel stuck one finger into the shallow water, and it warmed a little. “At least my grace is good enough for that much.”  
   
Dean looked at him sharply. “You’re here,” he reminded him. “That’s enough.”  
   
After about fifteen minutes, Isaiah’s temperature had lowered to a slightly less alarming one hundred and one. Dean reached for a towel, as Sam appeared in the doorway with a fresh pair of pajamas.  
   
Castiel helped Isaiah out of his wet clothes, then dried him off, while Isaiah stood shaking in the tub. When his eyes closed and he swayed into Castiel’s grip, Dean reached out and caught him, supporting him until he was dressed. That done, Dean let the bathwater drain, while Castiel carried Isaiah into the main room, where Jody and Sam were waiting.  
   
“Where’s Claire?” Castiel questioned, once he had laid Isaiah down on the couch, draping a light blanket over him. Isaiah had stuck his thumb in his mouth again, but this time Castiel didn’t even bother to remove it.  
   
Jody crossed her arms. “I told her what was going on, and she volunteered to go to the store to get some more supplies.”  
   
Coming in the doorway, Isaiah’s stuffed dog under his arm, Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Volunteered?”  
   
Jody shrugged.  
   
“Huh,” said Dean. He turned around to lean over the couch. “Here, brought a friend for you,” he told Isaiah, dangling the stuffed dog over his head. Isaiah opened his eyes a crack, but otherwise didn’t move. With a worried sigh, Dean tucked the stuffed animal under Isaiah’s arm anyway. After tussling a hand through Isaiah’s hair, Dean straightened. “Please tell me you guys found something while we were out getting our asses kicked?”  
   
Jody and Sam looked at each other.  
   
“We didn’t find anything in the books, no,” said Sam. “Nothing about Asahel _or_ Asael.”  
   
At the other end of the table, Castiel sank into a chair. “Clearly whatever is afflicting Isaiah has its roots in his heritage,” Castiel said. “The angels weren’t lying about that. If there’s nothing to be found here that can help us, then I will go.” He glanced up at them. “I will search the ruins of Alexandria if necessary.”  
   
Dean shot him a look. “Cas, no. Isaiah needs you here. _We_ need you here.”  
   
“To do what?” Castiel jumped up. “I am useless here, Dean. If I can find something to help him then maybe—”  
   
“Actually,” Jody broke in. “We did have one idea.”  
   
Dean and Castiel stilled.  
   
“But you’re not going to like it,” said Sam. He covered his eyes with his hands and shook his head. “At all.”  
   
Castiel’s back straightened. “Tell me.”  
   
 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Temperature in Fahrenheit, not Celsius. Average human temperature is around 98.6 F.


	11. Chapter 11

“This is fucked,” said Dean. He stomped on the grass. “Cas, we can’t be doing this.”  
   
Castiel turned to face him. “Dean, if there were any other option—”  
   
“You’ve said that before.”  
   
“And I meant it before!” Castiel snapped. “Can you think of anything else? We are running out of time.”  
   
Dean scrubbed at his face. “Fuck,” he snarled. He kicked the side of the impala, hitting the front tire. “Fuck!” His shoulders sagged. “I hate this.”  
   
Cautiously, Castiel’s hand snaked up to rest on the back of Dean’s neck. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”  
   
Turning around, Dean set his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “So, is he going to show or what?”  
   
“He said he would.”  
   
“That doesn’t mean much.”  
   
“I suppose.”  
   
Dean flexed his fingers, as if imagining them around someone’s neck. “He’s late.”  
   
“That’d be fashionably late,” Crowley corrected, from right next to them. Dean and Castiel whirled around, while Crowley brushed an invisible spot of lint off of his Italian suit, and examined his fingernails. “Hello.”  
   
Dean crossed his arms. Crowley looked him up and down, made a face, and then turned to Castiel.  
   
“My dearest Cas,” he said, taking a step towards him. Castiel promptly took a step backwards. Crowley sniffed. “I thought you would never call.” He moved forward again, just close enough to tap Castiel lightly on the chest with his finger.  
   
A smirk beginning to pull at the edge of Dean’s mouth, he cleared his throat. Crowley paused. Deliberately, he glanced down at his feet, then let out am incredibly put-upon sigh.  
   
“Really, boys,” he said, eyeing the devil’s trap. He raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were past all of this.”  
   
“Oh, you’d better believe we’re not, Crowley.”  
   
“Humph.” He gestured towards the grass. “Honestly, Castiel.” He grimaced. “Flowers?”  
   
“I told him he should’ve gone with cacti.”  
   
“Now that would have been a little less humiliating, at least,” Crowley said, examining the rows of thick white clover making up the circles and swirls of the devil’s trap. He made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “So, what do you two want that you couldn't just tell me about over the phone?” he queried, tugging on his suit. “I’m really very busy these days.”  
   
“We wish to make a deal.”  
   
Crowley immediately snorted. “No.”  
   
“What do you mean, no?”  
   
“I meant exactly what I said, precious. No.” He held up his finger and wagged it at them. “No means no. Obviously.”  
   
“Well, why not?” said Dean, still keeping a tight grip on Ruby’s knife.  
   
Cracking his knuckles, Crowley’s expression turned flat. “I’ve spent too much of my time dealing with you raging packs of disasters.” He sniffed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, _Dean_ , it hasn’t exactly been great for my resume.”  
   
“The other demons think you’re disloyal to them,” Castiel said, squinting.  
   
Crowley glared. “I’m still the king.”  
   
“Yeah,” said Dean. He gently drew his fingers down the edge of the knife. “But what happens when one of those assholes just ups and stabs you in the back? Then what are you gonna do?”  
   
“Then,” Crowley said, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he scowled at Dean, “I’ll be a very irate king.”    
   
“We wish to make a deal,” Castiel said again.  
   
“Honestly, have you two gone deaf? _No_.”  
   
“It will be worth your while,” said Castiel.  
   
Slowly, Crowley turned to stare at him. “Unless it’s the naphil’s grace, I want nothing to do with it.” He waved his hand in the air dismissively. “I wouldn’t even take a Winchester’s soul if he paid me. I still have nightmares about the last time.” He shuddered.  
   
“Isaiah’s grace is not on the table,” Castiel growled. “And neither is Dean’s soul.”  
   
“Oh, my.” A smile flickered around Crowley’s mouth. “Castiel, you’ve learned the boy’s name. I am very proud of you.”  
   
“Can it, Crowley,” said Dean.  
   
Crowley sighed. “Well, if you’re not offering any souls or grace, then I really don’t see how this deal would benefit me at all.” He pointed at the lines on the devil’s trap. “So if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I really have better things to be doing right now than talking in useless circles with you two.”  
   
“Oh yeah? Like what—getting knifed by the henchman you didn’t give a raise?”  
   
Crowley gave him a disdainful look. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dean. I don’t even pay my henchmen.” His glare re-solidified. “Now let me out.”  
   
“Come on, Crowley,” Dean began, but he was interrupted by Castiel, who held up his hand, something long and narrow clenched in his fingers.  
   
“This,” he said. The sunlight reflected off of cartilage and smoky plume like they were made of spun glass, yet the light wind still ruffled the edges.  
   
Crowley scoffed. “Did you pick that up off the ground on your way over?”  
   
“No,” said Castiel. He twirled the feather. “This is one of mine.”  
   
Crowley huffed incredulously. “Castiel,” he said, “I appreciate the offer, I really do. And I know your sheddings are useful for all kinds of nasty tricks.” He stared down his nose at them. “But you know very well that if I want an angel feather, I can get an angel feather. And it doesn’t have to be yours.”  
   
“No,” said Castiel. “You will never have an opportunity for one of these.” He prowled closer to the edges of the devil’s trap, though Crowley held his ground. “You have a demon problem, Crowley,” he said.  
   
Crowley looked over at Dean. “Please tell me you haven’t been trying to teach him wordplay. It’s never going to take.”  
   
Dean shrugged.  
   
“They don’t trust you,” Castiel continued. “They aren’t loyal to you.”  
   
“They’re demons,” Crowley said. He spread his hands. “What can I say?”  
   
“This.” Castiel strummed the feather. “If I give this willingly, it is protection.”  
   
Crowley rubbed his hands together. “That’s adorable, but I don’t need a good luck charm, Castiel.”  
   
Examining the feather, Castiel said, “What do you know about my brethren, Crowley?”  
   
“That you’re a right pain in my ass.”  
   
Castiel sighed. He put his face right up next to Crowley’s and said, voice low. “We were brought into creation to love our Father, to remain loyal to Him above all else. It’s a quality imbued in our very flesh. Loyalty, Crowley, do you understand me?”  
   
“I really can’t say that I do,” said Crowley, though his brow furrowed. Castiel stepped back.  
   
“As you said,” he said quietly, “you are the King of Hell.”  
   
“It’s so rewarding to actually have my accomplishments recognized.”  
   
“Your subjects are loyal to you.”  
   
“If they know what’s good for them, they are.”  
   
“You made them take an oath.”  
   
“I’m not an idiot, Castiel,” Crowley said. “Please give me some credit.”  
   
“Then,” Castiel said, “I will give you three feathers.” He held up his hand as Crowley opened his mouth. “Gifted, Crowley, not stolen. There is a difference.” His eyes bored into Crowley’s. “This property ceases to exist if they are stolen.”  
   
Crowley’s lips thinned. “And if I were to accept them?”  
   
“Then,” said Castiel, “so long as Hell recognizes you as her king, if one of your subjects betrays you—in other words, breaks their oath to you—their betrayal will be turned back at them.”  
   
Crowley eyed him doubtfully.  
   
“He’s saying if someone stabs you in the back they’re going to end up getting stabbed instead,” Dean put in, exasperated.  
   
Quickly turning to glower at him, Crowley said, “I did, in fact, understand that part, Dean.” He peered at Castiel. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”  
   
“One of Xerxes’ wives. Esther,” said Castiel. “Zachariah gave one to her, under Michael’s orders.” He allowed himself a small smile. “It was very effective.”  
   
“Hmm.” Crowley’s frown deepened. His expression remained dubious. “And I’m just supposed to believe you about your special, special feathers?”  
   
“Take it on faith.”  
   
“You, little angel, have the wrong department for that.” Crowley tapped his chin. “But,” he held up a hand, “assuming I believe you for some godforsaken reason, why would you offer something like that to little old me? That can’t be regulation, Castiel.”  
   
“Of course not.”  
   
“And what,” Crowley wondered, a gleam in his eyes, “would Heaven do to you if they found out?”  
   
“Heaven’s laws on the matter should make little difference to you.”  
   
“It’s just an academic curiosity.”  
   
“Do you want them or not?”  
   
Crowley straightened. “Easy there,” he said. He still looked unconvinced. “And I’m just supposed to…take your word for it that this works?”  
   
“Test it if you like,” Castiel said. “But you will waste one.”  
   
“Humph.” Crowley pursed his lips, eyes slitted. “Non-renewable resource?”  
   
“That’s why I’m offering you three.”  
   
Crowley sneered at him. “How generous.”  
   
“Each feather contains some of my grace.” Castiel’s gaze intensified. “In place of a soul, it should be enough to power the transaction.”  
   
When he heard that, Dean jumped up, grabbing the back of Castiel’s shoulder and jerking him around. “Cas,” he hissed. “You didn’t tell me that. You can’t afford to be giving away any of your grace—it’s weak enough as it is.”  
   
Gently but firmly, Castiel pushed him aside. “I must,” he said. “There is no other option.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel gave him a wan smile. “If you had the chance, you would do the same in my place.” His expression was knowing. “Luckily for me, your soul cannot be split.”  
   
Dean gaped at him for a moment, then bowed his head and turned away.  
   
“If we’re done with the noble hysterics,” Crowley said pointedly. Castiel straightened. He stepped around to face Crowley again.  
   
“Yes,” he said. “Do we have a deal?”  
   
Crowley’s mouth thinned. He sent a hard look in the direction of the feather that Castiel held, rubbing the bottom of his chin. “If you’re lying to me about what those feathers are capable of, the deal won’t hold.”  
   
“Of course.”  
   
“What do you want?”  
   
Castiel’s nostrils flared. “I want you to find someone.”  
   
“Who?”  
   
“An angel. One of the grigori.”  
   
At that, Crowley burst out laughing. When Castiel did nothing but continue to stare at him expectantly, Crowley slowly stopped. “You’re serious.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Castiel,” Crowley said, still smiling, “the grigori, if I remember my theology correctly—and I do—have been locked away for ten thousand years.” His smile grew wider. “For committing the same sort of crimes you have, actually.” He turned to Dean, pointing his thumb in Castiel’s direction. “And you bought into this nonsense?”  
   
“We met one,” said Dean.  
   
Crowley’s smile dropped. “What?”  
   
“Tamiel,” said Castiel. “He’s dead now. I don’t want you to find him.”  
   
“Well, good,” Crowley snapped. “I have enough trouble with live angels, I don’t want to bother with any dead ones.”  
   
“Asael,” said Castiel.  
   
Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Excuse you?”  
   
“Asael,” Castiel repeated. “The angel I want you to find. His name is Asael.”  
   
“And if I can’t find him?”  
   
“You found Death.”  
   
Crowley was starting to look like he was regretting that particular action. “And if he’s dead?”  
   
“You still get the feathers,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. Crowley waved him away like one would wave a buzzing fly.  
   
“I wasn’t asking you.” He looked at Castiel.  
   
“Yes.” Castiel inclined his head. “Even if Asael is dead, the deal still holds.”  
   
“You know,” said Crowley, gaze shrewd, “this would be easier if I knew why I was looking for him. I’m going to guess it has to do with the little one?”  
   
“I don’t need you to speak to him, Crowley.” Castiel hands clenched at his sides. Dean moved up to stand next to him. “I just need you to find him, and tell us where he is.”  
   
Crowley’s gaze moved from Castiel’s resolute face, to Dean’s, then back again. His jaw worked. Finally, he snorted. “Fine.”  
   
“Fine?” Castiel’s gaze sharpened. “So we have a deal?”  
   
Letting out a very long and theatrical sigh, Crowley nodded. “I get three feathers, you get your boy. It’s a deal. Now let me out.”  
   
“Wait,” said Dean, as Castiel stepped forward. “How long is it going to take you?”  
   
“I suppose,” said Crowley, with the air of speaking to a very young child, “it depends on how well he’s hiding.”  
   
Dean and Castiel exchanged glances.  
   
“Faster would be better,” Castiel said. He gestured towards the ground, and a thin strip of grass grew between the thick clover flowers, breaking the circle. Crowley’s lip curled. He gave an ironic little bow, and produced from the inside of his jacket a long scroll of parchment.  
   
“So sorry,” he said, sounding anything but. “I don’t really want to kiss either of you.”  
   
Castiel held out his hand, and Crowley handed him the scroll. Unfurling it, Castiel scanned it quickly.  
   
“Check for fine print,” Dean said.  
   
“That’s rich, coming from you two.” Crowley looked a little offended. “I think I might be the only one in this little circle who actually bothers to keep their deals.”  
   
“The terms are acceptable,” Castiel said, mostly ignoring him. “I need a pen.”  
   
“Ah, yes.” Crowley withdrew a ballpoint.  
   
With quick jerky movements, Castiel scrawled his name, while Dean unconsciously held his breath. When he had finished, the characters glowed briefly, and then the whole thing vanished. Castiel stepped back, a look of clear distaste on his face.  
   
Crowley cocked his head. “I need your feathers, Feathers,” he said dryly.  
   
One more hard look at Crowley, and Castiel opened his hand to reveal three feathers lying flat in his palm. Crowley took them. They, too, lit up briefly as Crowley tucked them into the pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ll text you,” he said, and was gone, leaving Dean and Castiel standing alone in the grassy field.  
   
“Well, uh,” said Dean, scratching his head. “I guess we go home and wait?”  
   
Without a word, Castiel turned on his heel and headed for the impala. Dean chased after him.  
   
The short ride home was fraught with tension. As he drove, Dean glanced repeatedly over at the passenger side, but with each glimpse of Castiel’s blank expression, he held his tongue. However, when Dean parked in front of the bunker and Castiel made to exit the car, Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.  
   
“Wait,” he said. He leaned in, kissing Castiel softly on the mouth. Castiel’s eyelashes fluttered. He stared as Dean shifted back again. “Okay,” he said. “Now you can go.”  
   
Castiel’s mouth twitched up, before he got out of the car and went into the bunker. After a moment of staring after him, catching his breath, Dean followed.  
   
“Did he go for it?” asked Sam, as they came down the staircase.  
   
Castiel, his focus already on the couch where Isaiah lay in a restless sleep, didn’t answer.  
   
“He did,” Dean said tiredly.  
   
“That’s definitely going to come back to bite us in the ass someday.”  
   
“Hey, half the demons we shake down are loyal to him anyway. Doesn’t matter if we kill ‘em or the feathers do.”  
   
“A unified Hell is still shitty.”  
   
“So you’re saying we shouldn’t have done it?”  
   
“No,” Sam said quickly, holding up his hands. “Just…It’s probably going to come back to bite us in the ass.”  
   
“Yeah well.” Dean tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “When doesn’t it?” As he spoke, Dean’s gaze swept across the room towards the far end. He indicated with his chin. “How’s the kid?”  
   
“We’ve been trying to keep his fever down,” Jody said, coming out of the kitchen with a wet cloth. She laid it on Isaiah’s forehead. “It hasn’t gotten back up to what it was when you guys came back from the park, but it hasn’t broken, either. We even tried a little baby aspirin just for the hell of it, but like Castiel said, it didn’t do a damn thing.”  
   
On the couch, Isaiah made a whimpering noise, and Castiel was already at his side. He nudged away the cloth on Isaiah’s forehead, and rested his palm there instead. Isaiah opened his eyes a little.  
   
“Daddy?” he coughed, trying to sit up. Castiel pushed him back down again.  
   
“I’m here,” he soothed.  
   
Isaiah’s face scrunched up. “Hot,” he mumbled.  
   
“I know,” Castiel said. “I know, but it’s all right. You’re going to get better.”  
   
Still standing at the foot of the stairs, Dean felt something clench in his chest.  
   
“De—Daddy Dean and I are going to find a way to help you get better, all right?” Castiel was saying. He replaced the cloth, smoothing the back of his knuckles down Isaiah’s face.  
   
“Kay,” Isaiah whispered. His eyes slid shut again. Castiel stared down at him.  
   
“Don’t worry,” he repeated, hand shaking slightly as it brushed back Isaiah’s sweaty bangs. “It’s going to be all right.”  
   
Sam stood next to Dean. “How long did Crowley say it would take?”  
   
His mouth a thin line, Dean shook his head. “He didn’t know.”  
   
Sam let out a short breath. “Well,” he offered, “it only took him a couple of days to find Death.”  
   
“Yeah, I know.” Dean faced his brother, the worry clear in the lines of his face, the shadows under his eyes. “Thing is, I don’t know if we have a couple of days.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
As the minutes ticked on and no call came, Dean’s first instinct was to work on the car. But then, looking over at Isaiah, his head in Castiel’s lap as they rested on the couch together, he thought about how far the garage was from the rest of the bunker, how cavernous and cold. If Cas or Isaiah needed him, it would take too long.  
   
He went into the kitchen instead.  
   
He didn’t have the heart to bake, but he knew that Sam and Jody probably hadn’t eaten anything either, and so he applied himself in throwing together some sandwiches with the leftover chicken. Just for the hell of it, he grilled them, too, with a mixture of provolone and cheddar he had found in the fridge.  
   
It was as he was coming back into the room with a platter full of sandwiches, that Castiel’s phone, abandoned on the table, buzzed.  
   
Dean almost dropped the plate.  
   
Hurrying over to the table, he nearly conked heads with Sam, who clearly had the same idea. Castiel, stuck on the couch with Isaiah’s head in his lap, was sending them frantic looks.  
   
“Is it Crowley?”  
   
“Fuck, I don’t know—” Dean slammed the plate down and pressed on the phone. He inhaled quickly. “It’s Crowley.”  
   
“What does it say?” Castiel demanded. He was delicately moving Isaiah’s head, so that he could stand up. “Dean, what does it say?”  
   
“It says—” Dean screwed his face up, “ _I’m almost embarrassed for you, Castiel. Angels are shit at hiding themselves._ And there’s an address, um…” Dean blinked. “In Vegas.”  
   
“Las Vegas?” Sam echoed. He let out of huff of disbelief. “The angel could be hiding literally anywhere in the world, and he chose Las Vegas?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “I guess it’s a good place to hide?”  
   
“Unless,” Castiel said, coming towards them, “the King of Hell has been contracted to look for you.”  
   
“Yeah, I’m guessing that he probably didn’t take that possibility into consideration,” said Dean.  
   
“It is understandable.” Castiel’s expression was grim. “Sam, Jody.”  
   
“Yeah?” Sam said, while Jody tilted her head in question.  
   
“Do you mind…” Castiel took a breath. “Once more,” he said. “Will you watch over him for me?”  
   
“Of course,” Jody said.  
   
“I should come too,” said Sam. “Two of you up against one of the grigori? Better with three.”  
   
But Castiel shook his head. “No, Sam,” he said. “We’re going to speak to him, not to fight him. If he can give us anything that can help—a spell, anything, it is best if you and Jody are here to make preparations, or conduct research.”  
   
“How are you planning on getting there?” Jody asked.  
   
Castiel raised his chin. “It is too far to drive in one day,” he said. “We will fly.”  
   
“Cas, you don't have that kind of juice,” protested Dean.  
   
“You’re right,” Castiel said. “But I am not going to be the one flying.” He turned to Sam. “Where is the nearest airport?”  
   
Sam’s eyes widened in realization, while Dean blanched. “I’m on it,” he said. “Same day tickets?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Let me get my computer.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said tentatively, as Sam hurried away. “Are you sure we have to take a plane?”  
   
Castiel bowed his head, glancing over at the couch. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said.  
   
Dean heaved a sigh. “I was afraid you’d say that.”  
   
Sam was back in the room, holding out his laptop as he walked. “Same day flights are iffy,” he said. “But flights to Vegas are pretty frequent.” He pursed his lips. “Looks like there’s a red-eye out of Grand Island. That’s only ninety miles away.”  
   
“Book it,” said Dean, after a quick look at Castiel.  
   
“Okay,” said Sam, after a few minutes of clicking. He looked up at them. “You’ve got to leave within the hour if you want to make it.”  
   
Dean turned to Castiel. “Any weapons that would be useful, aside from the angel blades?”  
   
Castiel shook his head. “With any luck—”  
   
“Jesus, Cas, don’t jinx it.”  
   
“With any luck,” Castiel repeated. “We will return tomorrow.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
When they told him they were leaving again, Isaiah threw a fit. Dean hadn’t really expected an exhausted and fevered child to have quite that lung capacity, but in retrospect, they probably should’ve just snuck out the door and left the explaining to Sam. Finally, their bags packed and angel blades hidden on Castiel’s person, there was nothing left but for Castiel to try and put Isaiah to sleep with any shred of grace he had left.  
   
“This feels terrible,” Castiel informed Dean, when they were finally on the road. He squeezed his hands over his knees, body stiff as he sat in the front seat. “We should not have left him.”  
   
“Cas, he never would’ve been safe on the plane.” Dean pressed on the gas as they merged onto the highway. Checking his side mirror, he added, “His grace is leaking all over the place. The bunker’s the only safe space for him until we can get this figured out.”  
   
“I know.” A beat. “I dislike it.”  
   
“Yeah, I know. It sucks.”  
   
“He’s afraid,” Castiel said. He looked at Dean, eyes pleading. “I don’t want him to be afraid.”  
   
Trying to focus on the road through his suddenly blurry vision, Dean took a breath. “We’re going to fix this,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”  
   
Castiel stared down at his lap, and said nothing.  
   
To his utter surprise, Dean managed to catch a whole three hours of sleep while flying. The flight itself was typically unpleasant, but Dean allowed himself one drink, and apparently it was enough for him to pass out cold for the duration.  
   
He wasn’t sure if Castiel slept. When Dean awoke, his cheek was smushed against the passenger-side window, leaving an incredibly attractive red blotch on his face. Castiel was still awake. He wasn’t doing anything, like reading a magazine or listening to the shitty music Sam had put on his phone. He was just staring at the seatback in front of him, his face scrunched as if deep in thought. Dean poked him.  
   
“Hey.”  
   
Castiel turned. “Hello,” he said quietly. “Did you sleep well?”  
   
“Eh.” Dean wrinkled his nose. “Watcha thinking?”  
   
Stretching out his legs, Castiel said, “I’m attempting to formulate a plan of attack.”  
   
“Oh.” Dean frowned. That was probably a good idea. “What’ve you come up with?”  
   
Castiel let out a breath. “To ring the doorbell and hope that he answers,” he admitted.  
   
“Uh, and how long did it take you to think that one up?”  
   
Wetting his lips, Castiel said, “If Asael is indeed here, he is doubtlessly posing as a human. If we want him to help us, it would be preferable not to antagonize him.” He shrugged. “I figured ringing the doorbell would be the polite thing to do.”  
   
“Hmm.” Dean pondered that for a moment. “I think I see your point.” He patted Castiel’s shoulder. “We should probably think up a plan B though, just in case he spooks.”  
   
“Yes, probably,” Castiel agreed. He fixed Dean with a stern look. “We can’t kill him.”  
   
“Cas!” Dean hissed, looking around the plane for any eavesdroppers or federal marshals.  
   
“I mean it, Dean,” Castiel said. “He might be our only chance.”  
   
“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, still motioning at him to keep the volume down, as one of the flight attendants passed by and reminded him to put up his tray table. A thought crossed his mind. “What if he’s been doing what that other guy, Tamiel, was doing? What if he’s been feeding off souls?”  
   
The Adam’s apple in Castiel’s throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “I don’t care.”  
   
Dean stared at him. “But, Cas,” he said.  
   
“I don’t care,” Castiel repeated, voice harder this time. “Isaiah is what’s important.”  
   
“Cas…” Dean hesitated. “If he’s killing people, we can’t let that slide.”  
   
Castiel fixed him with a look that could melt steel. “We can,” he said.  
   
Dean looked at him for a long moment, then his eyes dropped. They spent the rest of the plane ride in silence.  
   
When they landed, there was the usual chaos involved in disembarking. Fortunately, the only luggage they had was a carry-on with a day’s worth of clothing. Even the weapons had been put into Castiel’s safekeeping, to prevent their being confiscated.  
   
“Sam got us the cheapest fucking car,” Dean grumbled, as he threw his duffle into the back and tossed Castiel’s in after.  
   
“It doesn’t matter.” Castiel was already buckled in the front seat. He had his phone out, and was mapping their route to the address Crowley had given them.  
   
“Matters to me.” Dean slammed the trunk and came around to the driver’s side. He slid into the seat and buckled his seat belt. The car did have that nice, new leather smell, he noticed. It wasn’t too bad. “Okay, where are we going?”  
   
Contrary to Dean’s expectations—which, he was forced to admit, hadn’t exactly been based on anything but wild speculation about the kind of angel who would hang out in Vegas—Castiel directed them away from the strip and anything that even remotely resembled the stereotypical city. About forty minutes outside of the airport, they stopped and parked in front of what looked like an incredibly boring, soulless, condominium.  
   
Dean got out of the car and, after a quick look around, went to go examine the entrance. Apparently, he’d need someone to buzz him in.  
   
“Well?” Castiel said, peering over his shoulder, and pulling one of the extra angel blades out of his coat. Accepting it and hiding it under his own jacket, Dean pointed at the lists.  
   
“Crowley said number 422. That’s listed under, uh, ‘Mr. Aaron Green’.” He raised his eyebrows at Castiel. “Plan A?”  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “Plan A.”  
   
With a bit of trepidation, Dean pressed the buzzer. When no one answered, he pressed it again. “It’s kind of early,” he said to Castiel. “Hopefully we won’t piss him off by waking him up.”  
   
Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sudden crackling of the speaker.  
   
“Yes?” came what, to Dean at least, sounded like a perfectly ordinary voice. “Hello?”  
   
“Uh.” Dean cleared his throat. “Hello, uh, Mr. Green?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“This is, uh, Maintenance. We, uh, got a call from your neighbor about, uh, some roaches and, uh, wanted to check your apartment as well.”  
   
“I don’t have any roaches.”  
   
“Sorry, sir,” Dean said, wincing as Castiel covered his face with his hands. “We just, uh, have to check.”  
   
“If you’re Maintenance, why don’t you just come right in?” The voice was now skeptical.  
   
“Um.” Dean swallowed. “New company policy. If the resident is home, have to receive permission to enter. Sir.”  
   
“Very well.” A pause. “I suppose you want me to buzz you in as well?”  
   
“Uh, yes? Sir?”  
   
“Of course.” If Dean didn’t know any better, he would have said the guy sounded amused. A moment later, the buzzer sounded and the door lock clicked. “I will see you upstairs, gentlemen.”  
   
As he pulled on the door, Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s. “That sounded a little bit ominous.”  
   
“At least we got inside,” Castiel pointed out.  
   
“Oh yeah,” Dean exhaled. They headed for the elevator, pressed for the fourth floor. “Great.”  
   
The elevator was sleek and new, but had no elevator music, which Dean found himself oddly disappointed by. When the doors opened, they stepped out onto the tiled floor, passing several large potted plants on their way to the appropriate suite, like the yuppie retirement community of Dean’s worst nightmares.  
   
“Here.” Castiel stopped. “422.” He raised his fist, then hesitated. “Should I knock?”  
   
“Does he have a doorbell?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Then I guess the polite thing to do would be to knock.”  
   
After giving him a hard look, Castiel did so.  
   
They barely had to wait five seconds before the sound of footsteps made them tense. The door swung open.  
   
Aaron Green was a short and wiry man with a shock of curly black hair going grey. He surveyed the pair of them over wire-rimmed glasses, arms crossed in front of his button-down blue shirt.  
   
“Maintenance, huh?” he said, heavy on the sarcasm. His gaze travelled to Castiel. “Hello, brother,” he said. “Come on in.”  
   
Dean and Castiel looked at each other. Aaron Green watched them patiently.  
   
“I’m not planning to kill you,” he said. “I just moved here, and I don’t need that kind of attention. I trust you’ll do the same?”  
   
After another moment of uncertainty, they stepped inside.  
   
“Have a seat,” said their host, indicating towards what looked like the living room. It had a selection of plush couches, at any rate. Dean suddenly felt underdressed.  
   
“Um,” he started.  
   
“Would you like some coffee?” Aaron Green continued.  
   
Dean blinked. “…Okay?”  
   
“Coffee, brother?” their host looked over his shoulder at Castiel.  
   
“Please,” Castiel said.  
   
There was a minute or so of awkward silence, while Dean and Castiel sat perched on the edges of the couch, exchanging baffled looks, and their host bustled around getting coffee and saucers. Eventually, he handed one each to Dean and Castiel, who cradled them gingerly. The man himself sat on one of the stools next to the breakfast bar.  
   
“So,” he said. “What do a renegade angel,” he eyed Castiel, then turned to Dean and looked him up and down, “and a hunter, want with me?”  
   
“Wait a sec,” said Dean, while Castiel inhaled sharply. “How do you know he’s a renegade?”  
   
He was favored with a disdainful sniff. “Good Servants of Heaven don’t wear blue jeans,” he said, pointing at Castiel.  
   
“Oh.” Dean blinked. “I guess.”  
   
“Also,” the man continued, a slight smirk playing around his lips, “good Servants of Heaven aren’t generally known for making deals with demons. If I’m not mistaken, the King of the Crossroads himself was sniffing around here yesterday evening.”  
   
Dean stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Crowley,” he muttered.  
   
Castiel put his coffee aside. “Asael,” he said.  
   
With a wry twist of the lips, their host lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”  
   
“I’m Castiel.”  
   
“Yes, little brother, get to the point.”  
   
“Wait, is he older than you?” Dean asked. Castiel sent him a quelling look, refocusing on Asael.  
   
“You fathered the naphil Asahel?”  
   
Asael stilled. Gripping the counter tightly, he turned to look more closely at Castiel. “How do you know that?”  
   
“Research.”  
   
Asael stared at him. “What do you want, Castiel?” he said eventually.  
   
Castiel squared his shoulders. “Tell me of the nephilim,” he said.  
   
Asael made a derisive noise. “Why would you want to hear such sordid history?” he said, voice bitter. “The nephilim are long destroyed, Asahel among them.”  
   
Castiel pressed his lips together. He leaned forward, gaze intent. “Please,” he said. “I need to know.”  
   
Frowning, Asael considered him again. He took in the shadows under his eyes, the lines of worry etched in his forehead, the internal candle flicker of his spent grace. Slowly his eyes widened. “You didn’t.”  
   
Castiel’s shoulders hunched. “Please, brother,” he whispered. “I must know.”  
   
With a deep sigh, Asael closed his eyes, leaning his head back. His voice was somehow gentler as he said, “How old is the child?”  
   
“Four,” Dean answered, watching Castiel bite his lip. “He’s four.”  
   
Asael straightened. He folded his fingers together. “What signs does he show?”  
   
“Well, he freaking glows in the dark, for one.”  
   
Asael rotated to look at him, then slowly back to Castiel. “Anything else?”  
   
Castiel set his jaw. “He does not sleep,” he said. “His grace escapes him. He’s been running a fever for two days.”  
   
“I’m surprised Heaven has yet to find him.”  
   
Somehow managing to look a little guilty, Castiel said, “They were dealt with.”  
   
“Ah.”  
   
“Can you help us?” Castiel’s jaw was tight.  
   
Asael’s gaze flicked away. He took a long drink of his cooling coffee, and rubbed at his face. Then, he spun the stool back around to face Castiel and Dean.  
   
“Your time is short,” he said. “If you are lucky, the grace will burn the child from the inside out, and he will die.” Castiel’s eyes flashed and he made to stand, but Dean put a firm hand on his arm. Asael continued, “If you are not lucky, he will survive, but when the fever breaks, he will not be the same. The grace will have done irreparable damage to his soul, and he will not be the child you remember.”  
   
“You’re saying he’ll be like the other nephilim,” said Dean, still keeping a tight hold on Castiel, while Asael nodded.  
   
“Quick to anger,” he said, “with little understanding of the cruelties he inflicts, and in possession of the immense power of his birthright.” He let his cup clink down heavily on the counter. “A disaster, essentially.”  
   
“But is there nothing that can be done?” Castiel’s voice was hoarse.  
   
Asael stared down at his coffee cup. “Most of my garrison cavorted with human women for sport,” he said. He snorted. “I was the only one foolish enough to fall in love with one.”  
   
On the couch, Dean’s fingers tightened their grip on Castiel’s arm.  
   
His voice far away, Asael continued, “When she told me she had conceived, unlike my brothers, who viewed such things as a conquest, I stayed. I was there for Asahel’s birth.” A small smile touched his mouth. “When he was weaned, when he took his first steps, I was there.” He blew air out of the side of his mouth, taking a sip of his coffee. “He grew ill at about the same age,” he said. “I could see it was his grace that was sickening him, but I did not know what to do about it.”  
   
He placed the coffee cup down again. “It was my wife, ironically a student of Ramiel’s, who came up with a plan.” He looked up, straight at Castiel. “You must cut his grace away,” he said.  
   
Castiel gaped at him. “But he would die.”  
   
Holding up a finger, Asael said, “That is why you must do it very, very carefully.”  
   
There was silence for a moment. Castiel took a deep breath. “What is the process?”  
   
Asael gave a sharp nod. He reached for a pad of paper and began to write. “Born of a human mother, the boy has a human soul,” he said. “You must separate the soul from the grace, and lock the grace away before it causes more damage.” His expression contorted. “You must understand,” he said. “If you do this, he will become like any other human child. Frail, susceptible to disease. But he will live.” He raised the pencil to his mouth pensively. “I’ve often wondered if the rest of my garrison failed to follow this path not only through neglect, but because they feared to be shamed for siring _human_ offspring.” His nostrils flared. “The fools.”  
   
“So he’ll be like any other kid?” Dean asked.  
   
“As he grows, the grace may begin to leech back in. It should only be a small amount, if any. Hopefully, his body will be more suited to containing it. His lifespan will be longer. I don’t know by how much.” He bowed his head. “Asahel was cut down with the rest of the nephilim before his time.”  
   
Castiel was watching him. “I do not care if he is human,” he said. “I have been human. Dean is human. I care that he is alive and that he is himself.”  
   
Asael glanced at him. “You will need holy oil,” he said. “That is what holds the grace away from his soul, when they have separated. Anoint him with holy oil, like so.” He drew something on the paper, and showed it to them. It looked like a circle of Enochian symbols, each one inside the point of a six-sided star. “The best place would be the belly. There is an incantation to ease the transition.” He scribbled something down on the paper.  
   
“We have holy oil,” said Castiel, eyes now filled with a wild hope.  
   
“The grace will react to the presence of the oil. When it begins to show, you must cut at it with _your_ angel blade.” Asael tapped the counter with his pencil. “It cannot be another’s, his grace will recoil from anything else. While you seal off the grace, his mother is responsible for keeping his soul bound to him and to the earth.”  
   
Castiel stilled. “His mother?” he said carefully.  
   
“Yes. As a child of two spheres, his mother is what binds him to the earth. She must be in contact with the earth—bare feet are best—and he with her.”  
   
Castiel shook his head, his mouth tight. “His mother is dead,” he said.  
   
Asael paused. “That is unfortunate,” he said. “I am sorry.” He pressed his lips together. “The process may also work with her mother, or another close member of her family, but I could not guarantee it.” He held the paper out to Castiel.  
   
“That’s not possible,” said Castiel. “All of her family—they are gone. And I do not—” his breath hitched, “—I possess neither the power nor the influence to bring them back.”  
   
Asael stared at him, his face grave. Slowly, he lowered the paper. “Then,” he said, “I am sorry for your loss, Castiel.”  
   
 

 


	12. Chapter 12

“No,” said Castiel. He started to stand. “No, I do not accept it. There has to be another way. Maybe, Dean—”  
  
“He is not the child’s blood,” Asael said, after a moment of eyeing the human in question. “It will not work.”  
  
“Then,” said Castiel wildly, his breathing starting to quicken, “there must be something—”  
  
“Cas, Cas!” Dean slid off the couch. Kneeling in front of Castiel, he cupped his face in his hands, forcing Castiel to look him in the eye. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve gotten this far. We aren’t giving up now. But you’ve gotta keep it together, man.”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel choked out, as Dean guided Castiel’s face to his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around him.  
  
“Come on, Cas,” he murmured. “We have somewhere to start, we’ll figure it out.” He held out his hand as Asael began to step away. “Give me the paper.”  
  
Asael frowned at him. “Without the child’s mother, the ritual will not work.”  
  
“Then we’ll modify it.” Dean wriggled his fingers. “Paper, please.”  
  
After a pause, his eyes flickering across Dean’s outstretched hand to the angel he held against him, Asael handed it over.  
  
Examining the paper over Castiel’s bowed back, Dean said, “Is this all of it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“All right.” Dean got to his feet, pulling Castiel along with him. He loosened his embrace, and gripped Castiel by the shoulders. “Cas,” he said. “Look at me.”  
  
After a moment, Castiel looked up. His eyes were red. “Sorry, Dean,” he whispered.  
  
Dean tightened his grip. “Come on, man,” he said, “We’ve got somewhere to start. Let’s get back to the bunker, and me and you and Sam can start hitting the books, think of a way to work this, okay?”  
  
Castiel took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, straightening his back, tugging on the hem of his shirt. He turned to Asael, face still pale, but expression resolute. “Thank you, brother,” he said.  
  
Asael looked at him. Though his features didn’t change, his eyes seemed suddenly older, tired. Leaning back against the countertop, he folded his arms in front of his chest. “Good luck, Castiel,” he said.  
  
Castiel nodded.  
  
They were almost to the door when Asael spoke again. “If—if the child survives—” he hesitated, then said, almost tentatively, “I would not be opposed to another visit.” His lips quirked up in a half-smile. “I may still have knowledge regarding the nephilim that might be…helpful to you.”  
  
Castiel canted his head, squinting. And then, to Dean’s utter surprise, said, “I will consider it.”  
  
Asael raised his coffee cup to them. “Goodbye.”  
  
“Thanks,” said Dean, as they backed out of the door. He shut it behind them, and they stood for a moment in the quiet of the pristine hallway, staring at one another.  
  
“I should, um. I should call Sam,” said Dean, letting out a long exhale. “See if he can get us a flight back.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“We might have to sit tight in the airport for a little bit.”  
  
Castiel’s jaw clenched. “Could we drive the rental car?”  
  
“Sorry, Cas.” Dean shook his head. “Much as I hate it, I think the plane’s still going to be faster.”  
  
Castiel swallowed. “All right,” he said again. “Tell Sam what we need for Isaiah, as well. Maybe he can think of a solution.”  
  
“I’ll at least tell him to get out the holy oil.” Dean took out his phone. Then, after hovering his fingers over it for a few seconds, put it back again. “I’ll call him in the car,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”  
  
  
#  
  
  
The ride back to the airport was quiet. With nothing to do but wait until Sam could get them tickets for a flight back, Dean drove them to an old fashioned diner at the edge of the strip. But neither the fifties décor nor the strawberry milkshake Dean bought him could lift Castiel’s funk.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said. He stole a fry off of Castiel’s plate. “Aren’t you going to eat these?”  
  
In response, Castiel just pushed the rest of the plate towards him. “You can have them,” he said.  
  
Dean sighed.  
  
Sam got them another red-eye. Dean supposed he couldn’t really complain, given the short notice, but it still rankled that they had to wait. He sat next to Castiel in the uncomfortable plastic seats at the gate, fiddling with his phone, casting sidelong glances at Castiel’s terse face. After two aborted attempts at conversation, Dean slid on a pair of headphones.  
  
Twenty minute until boarding time, and Dean noticed Castiel watching a family of four, with two little kids. The mother was sitting on the floor, leaning against a post and trying to distract a toddler, while next to her, a little girl with pigtails and a bright green jacket scribbled vigorously in her coloring book. Castiel was riveted on them, like he had totally forgotten all the human rules about staring at people you don’t even know.  
  
Dean suddenly felt like punching something.  
  
The feeling didn’t really go away when they finally got on the plane, but it was definitely overshadowed by the nausea that burned up into Dean’s throat as soon as they heard the deep rumble of the jet engines. Belatedly, Castiel noticed him clutching at the armrest, and rested his hand on top of Dean’s.  
  
Dean was too jittery to sleep on the flight back, too distracted with trying to think of ways to get around the requirements for the ritual. Isaiah already considered him kind of a dad, right? Maybe if they did some kind of blood brothers thing it would be enough for the spell to take? Maybe there was an Enochian adoption ritual?  
  
Feeling a pressure on his left side, Dean turned his head to see Castiel leaning precariously against him, his eyes shut, his breathing deep and even. At the sight of him, Dean didn’t know whether he should be relieved that he was getting some rest, or even more worried.  
  
On the one hand, sure, Cas was exhausted and his grace depleted more than usual from helping Isaiah, but on the other—just how much angel was he, really? Was it just going to get worse?  
  
Carefully, so Castiel wouldn’t wake, Dean shifted in his seat and rearranged Castiel’s head on his shoulder so that it wouldn’t drop off. His hand already on Castiel’s head, it seemed stupid to resist the temptation to run his fingers through the unruly dark hair, even though Dean was _sure_ someone had to be watching them, probably judging them, too.  
  
Oh well.  
  
Castiel woke up about an hour outside of their destination. He raised his head stiffly, blinking at Dean like he had no idea what the hell had just gone down, but he definitely didn’t approve of it. The back of his hair was sticking up where Dean had fluffed it. Dean made an executive decision not to tell him that part.  
  
He covered a yawn, cracked his neck, and said, “I’ve been thinking.”  
  
“Oh yeah? What about?”  
  
“The wards.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“The—” another yawn, “—the wards around the Men of Letters bunker.”  
  
“What about them?”  
  
“I think,” Castiel said, his eyebrows drawing together, “they may be responsible for dampening what’s happening to Isaiah.”  
  
“You think?” Dean tilted his head, frowning. “How so?”  
  
Castiel wet his lips. “Sam said Isaiah’s fever had not gotten better, but neither had it worsened. It was highest just after he encountered the angels. Outside.”  
  
“Are you sure that wasn’t just _because_ of the angels?”  
  
“No.” Castiel shook his head. “I think the angels were drawn to it. I think that’s how they found him.”  
  
“Hmmm.”  
  
“Additionally,” Castiel continued, his eyes now narrowed, “his worst episode before that was after he sleepwalked through the bunker.”  
  
“Leaving the wards,” Dean said.  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“He did have an episode in his room,” Dean pointed out.  
  
“Yes.” Castiel folded his hands together and rested his chin on top of them. “But I was able to calm him fairly easily, without waking him. Outside the bunker, I could not.” He looked up at Dean. “It’s possible an element in the warding could help us with the ritual.”  
  
“I guess,” Dean said, still a little doubtful.  
  
“Either that, or it could serve to continue to dampen his symptoms until I, perhaps, am able to find someone in Heaven who could help us.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
Castiel’s fingers flexed a little. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But there may be someone. Maybe someone who’d be willing to bring back Daphne.”  
  
“They’d have to be pretty powerful, wouldn’t they? Anyone like that still up there?”  
  
“No, only…” he trailed off. “Joshua.” His eyes widened. “Joshua,” he said flatly.  
  
At a loss, Dean blinked at him. “Joshua?”  
  
“Joshua,” Castiel snarled. “He must have known.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _Listen, my son, to your father’s instruction and do not forsake your mother’s teaching,”_ Castiel recited. He continued, _“They are a garland to grace your head and a chain to adorn your neck._ _”_  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“Proverbs 1:8-9. That’s what he told me, Dean. He must have known Isaiah would need his mother. ‘A chain to adorn his neck’?” Castiel clenched his jaw, the knuckles of his hands white where they gripped his knees.   
  
“You think that’s what he was being cryptic about?” Dean frowned. “That’s kind of a leap.”  
  
“It would fit,” Castiel said. His voice was bitter. “He’s old and powerful enough to remember what happened to the nephilim. He must have known that Isaiah’s human half would not be enough to contain his grace.” He grunted. “Of course an angel—even Joshua—would envision Isaiah’s human half as a chain.” He shook his head. “It should be the reverse. His grace has so far brought him nothing but grief.”  
  
“Hey,” Dean said. He placed a cautious hand on Castiel’s arm. “It did save his life.”  
  
Castiel let out a short exhale. He dropped his gaze. “I’m not so sure,” he said. He glanced back up. “What use is being saved by something that’s only going to kill him later?”  
  
Dean bit his lip hard to keep from saying something stupid. Instead he took a breath and said, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s worth it. Because it’s not going to kill him. We’re going to fix it.”  
  
In response, Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m afraid, Dean,” he said, his words almost inaudible above the roar of the engines. “I’m afraid for him.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Castiel swung his head to look at him. “Do you?”  
  
“Well, yeah, Cas,” Dean said. His throat had somehow gotten tight. He let out something that was supposed to be a chuckle, but his voice broke and the words came out jagged. “He’s kinda my kid too, you know?”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel whispered. “You’re right, Dean. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Nah,” Dean said. He brushed his hand across his face, and just when had his cheeks become wet? “I mean, you’re really—”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel said sharply. “Don’t.”  
  
Their eyes caught. Dean looked down. “Yeah,” he said softly.   
  
Castiel sighed, pressing his fingers together. “Joshua may be an option,” he said. “A closer examination of the wards may be as well.”  
  
Dean’s mouth twisted. “It’s kind of gross,” he said, “but I was thinking maybe we could try and trick the spell with some kind of blood transfer.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
Waving his arm a little vaguely, Dean said, “Like a, I don’t know, a blood-brothers sort of ritual. Then, technically we would share blood.” He shrugged. “I don’t know how much of a stickler this thing is. It might work. Or maybe some kind of magical adoption spell.”  
  
“Does such a thing exist?”  
  
“I have no idea.”  
  
“I don’t know either.” Castiel took the crumpled paper out of his pocket. He flipped the latch to bring down the tray table, and rested the paper on top, smoothing out the edges. “It looks very simple.” His shoulders hunched forward. “We’re just missing a key ingredient.”  
  
“We’ll keep thinking of stuff,” Dean said. “Sam’s probably thinking of stuff, too. When we land, you can call him and tell him about your idea with the wards.”  
  
Slowly Castiel nodded. When a flight attendant stopped at their row and reminded him to put up his tray table, Castiel slid the paper off and back into his pocket. The plane beginning to shake with pre-landing turbulence, Dean resumed recalling every movie he’d ever seen involving a plane crash.  
  
He startled when, instead of the expected hand on his arm, or maybe his wrist, Castiel instead reached behind him to cradle the back of Dean’s neck, his palm cool and soft against the heat of his skin.  
  
“We will reach the ground.”  
  
Dean’s right eye twitched. “That’s really not the part I’m worried about.”  
  
With the upward flick of an eyebrow, Castiel drew Dean forward and rested their foreheads together. After a moment, he tilted Dean’s head and kissed him on the lips, heedless of any scandalized passengers. Dean’s eyes went wide, but he allowed it.  
  
“We will reach the ground,” Castiel repeated, drawing away.  
  
Dean let out a breath as the whine of the wheels extending became audible. “Damn it, Cas.”  
  
Somehow managing to look very dignified, Castiel wiped his mouth with his hand, favoring Dean with a very small smile.  
  
“Stop trying to distract me. I need to be focused.”  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
Dean sent him a half-hearted glare, face whitening at a sudden bit of turbulence. Castiel made to lean in for another kiss, but there was the bump of landing and he fell against Dean instead, completely missing his mouth.  
  
“Oof.”  
  
“See?” Castiel said, as he disentangled himself. “Just as I said. We landed.”  
  
“Thank you, Cas. I got that part.”  
  
They unbuckled their seatbelts as the lights in the cabin flickered on. Of course, disembarking was always a trial, but something in Dean was buoyed by their landing—and not just the landing itself, damn it. They were only a few hours from getting to the bunker, to seeing Isaiah, to getting another start on figuring this whole thing out.  
  
Castiel seemed to have the same ideas as Dean, or else he was just anxious. He practically vibrated in his seat, glowering at his shuffling fellow passengers, nearly pushing them aside in his rush to get off the plane. Dean made apologetic faces as he followed, even as Castiel marched down the jetway, scattering passengers and luggage alike in his wake.  
  
The impala had not been harmed during her stint in long-term parking. Dean felt something in his chest loosen a little bit at the sight of her. They got in, and Dean turned her on as Castiel buckled his seatbelt.  
  
“All right,” Dean said, looking over his shoulder as he pulled out of the parking spot. “Time to go home.”  
  
By all rights, the drive should have taken at least an hour and a half, if not more. However, Dean had a loose appreciation for the speed limit at the best of times, and two in the morning on the way to go home to see his sick kid, was not one of those times.  
  
They arrived at the bunker within the hour.  
  
It was a sign of Castiel’s state that he didn’t even comment on Dean’s speeding. In fact, as soon as they pulled in, Castiel was already throwing open the door, jumping out before Dean had a chance to even turn off the ignition. But as he made to burst through the entrance, Dean halted him with a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Cas, you go in all freaked out like that, you’re probably going to scare him,” Dean reminded him. “And he’s probably asleep, anyway.” He squeezed Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel took a deep breath. He ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture he’d probably picked up from Sam, and nodded.  
  
“You’re correct,” he said. He lifted his chin and reached for the door again, this time noticeably more composed. “I don’t want to wake him.”  
  
Dean gave him a pat and moved back, letting Castiel enter the bunker first.  
  
If they had thought that the late hour would have meant everyone except maybe Sam had long retired for the night, they were sadly mistaken. As soon as they came down the stairs, Sam was on them, Jody not far behind.  
  
“You made it back,” he said, the relief in his voice obvious.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. He cleared his throat, nodding pointedly towards where Isaiah lay in his usual spot on the couch. His cheeks were red with fever and he had only a thin sheet on top of him, but he didn’t objectively look any worse than he had when they’d left. His eyes were tightly shut in sleep, and he clutched the stuffed dog Sam had gotten for him. “Someone not want to go to bed?”  
  
“Oh,” Sam said, following his gaze. He let out a crooked grin. “No, I, uh, thought it would be easier to keep an eye on him out here.” He scratched the back of his neck. “He’s not bad company, either.”  
  
“He’s been eating and drinking a little,” Jody added, noticing the pinch of Castiel’s mouth. She shrugged. “Mostly just soup and water, but we’ll take what we can get, right?”  
  
“That is good to hear.” Castiel was already on his way over. He crouched down, examining Isaiah’s sleeping countenance. He reached out a hand, gently resting it on Isaiah’s cheek. “What is his temperature?”  
  
“About one hundred and two, an hour ago,” Jody said. Castiel’s shoulders slumped.  
  
“So, no worse.”  
  
“No worse,” Jody confirmed.  
  
Dean drew Sam aside. “Did you find the holy oil?”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam gestured towards the table. A large earthenware jug sat next to a stack of books. “Dean, about the ritual—”  
  
“Man.” Dean shook his head. “Of course it’s got to be something stupid like that.”  
  
“To be fair,” said Sam, “it kind of makes sense. I mean, humans and—what did Cas call it? A wave of celestial intent? Not a good match.”  
  
Dean gave a self-conscious cough. “Yeah,” he said. He made a face. “Cas and I were trying to think of a way to get around what Asael said we need for it to work.” He rubbed at his jaw. “We couldn’t come up with anything good though, outside of trying to freaking raise Daphne from the dead, so if you guys had any better luck we could really use it.”  
  
Sam gave him a sidelong glance, resting his hand on the table “Well,” he started, but stopped when another voice cut him off.  
  
“Actually,” Claire said, stepping out from the shadow of the kitchen door, “we did.” She cleared her throat self-consciously. “I did.”  
  
Dean’s gaze left Sam and travelled over to her, frowning. Over by the couch, Castiel slowly straightened. “Claire?”  
  
“Hey, Castiel.”  
  
Castiel’s throat worked. “Claire,” he said again. His voice cracked a little. “What are you saying?”  
  
Claire sighed. She gestured to herself. “I think I might be what you guys are looking for? Maybe?”  
  
Dean’s mouth opened. He turned to Sam. “Shit,” he said. “Shit.”  
  
“From what you guys said on the phone,” Sam said, “technically you just need a close human relative. Nothing said it _had_ to be the mom’s side of the family.”  
  
“That’s kind of a lot of technicality,” Dean said, but he turned to Castiel anyway. “Cas?”  
  
Castiel still had his hand on Isaiah’s forehead. He took a steadying breath, his eyes meeting Claire’s. “You’d do this?”  
  
Claire shrugged. “I mean, if you think it’ll work.”  
  
“I don’t—” Castiel pressed his lips together. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if you are willing to attempt it—”  
  
At that, Claire rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to let a freaking kid _die_ just because I’m mad at you,” she told him, though her shoulders were a little hunched. “It's a good idea, all right? It’s not that big a deal.”  
  
Castiel’s look intensified. “It is,” he said quietly. “You don’t even know what this ritual could demand of you.”  
  
Claire stared down at her feet.  
  
Jody moved to stand next to her. She put her arm around Claire’s shoulders. “You need a one hundred percent human blood relative,” she said, “I think she’s the best chance we’ve got.”  
  
“Huh,” Dean said. He looked at Claire, who crossed her arms. His mouth twitched. Seeing his smile, Claire lifted her chin.  
  
“I can do it,” she said again.  
  
Dean examined her closely for a moment. “Are you sure?”  
  
Claire gave him a glare that could melt steel. “Yeah.”  
  
Dean held up his hands. “All right, all right. That’s better than anything we came up with.” He glanced over at Castiel. “Cas?”  
  
Castiel bit his lip. He glanced at Claire again, who met his gaze squarely. Castiel set his shoulders, and gave a sharp nod. “Let’s get to work.”  
  
  
#  
  
  
The initial difficulty was in the set-up.  
  
“Asael said that the ‘earth’ uh, _relative_ , needed to be touching the ground,” Dean said. His lips twisted. “So…outside?”  
  
“The meadow, maybe,” Castiel said. He was redrawing the symbols that Asael had given him on another piece of paper, making sure he had them correct. “Outside, but close enough to the bunker that we can take shelter if necessary.”  
  
“Do you think the angels are going to sense what’s going on?” Jody leaned forward on her elbows. “We don’t want them showing up halfway through.”  
  
Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know.” He furrowed his brow in thought. “Perhaps a protective circle of some kind,” he mused. He massaged his temples. “If I was correct earlier and the wards do have a dampening effect on Isaiah’s grace, I do not want to risk the ritual being compromised. I’m not sure what kind of warding would be best.”  
  
“I don’t really like it,” Dean said, “but for a contingency plan in case they do show up, we could put an angel banishing sigil on one of the trees.” He grimaced at Castiel. “It would suck for you, but it’d at least give us time to get Isaiah out of there.”  
  
“Yes,” Castiel said. He put down his pen, brandishing the paper. “We should do that.”  
  
Jody frowned. “A banishing sigil wouldn’t hurt Isaiah, would it? He has grace, too.”  
  
“No,” Castiel said. “I don’t think it would have any affect on him. It’s written specifically for ‘dwellers of Heaven’ so he would not meet the criteria.”  
  
“Hey,” Jody said to Castiel. She kept her voice low. “If it turns out that Claire doesn’t work for the spell, is there any danger? To her or Isaiah?”  
  
Castiel paused, frowning. “I do not believe so,” he said finally. “The spell is intended to separate Isaiah’s soul from his grace. If Claire cannot serve as an anchor for his soul, then the two will simply remained intertwined, and I will not be able to cut through them.”  
  
“So it just wouldn’t do anything.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay,” said Jody. She straightened, giving him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, you know I had to ask.”  
  
Castiel nodded. “I know.”  
  
Dean pushed his chair back. “Is that everything?”  
  
“Everything except Isaiah,” Castiel said.  
  
“Okay.” Dean’s gaze swept over the table. “Do we want to do this now?” he said quietly. “Or do you all want to sleep on it?”  
  
They all blinked at him, but it was Claire who answered.  
  
“I don’t know about you guys, but no way am I going to sleep until this is over with,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let’s just do it.”  
  
“That’s my girl,” Jody murmured. She and Sam stood as well. “We’ll go set up a spot in the meadow,” she said. “You guys get Isaiah ready.”  
  
As they filed away from the table, Sam grabbed the jug of holy oil. “See you in a few.”  
  
Dean lifted his hand as Sam, Jody, and Claire went up the stairs. He turned to look at Castiel, only to realize he was already over by Isaiah, gently shaking him awake.  
  
“Isaiah,” Castiel said softly. “Can you wake up?”  
  
Isaiah whined something and squirmed away so that his back was to Castiel. Dean stifled a snort. He bent down next to Castiel.  
  
“Hey, kid,” said Dean. “You’ve got to wake up. Look who’s back.”  
  
With a deep huff, Isaiah rolled back over. He blinked open sleepy blue eyes, though his initial grumpiness seemed to cheer considerably when he realized who was standing over him.  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
At his words, Castiel visibly melted. “Hello,” he said.  
  
Isaiah tilted his head. “Hi, Daddy,” he said. He coughed.  
  
Dean patted his back. “You still feel sick?”  
  
His face serious, Isaiah nodded. “My tummy hurts.”  
  
Castiel’s face crumpled a little. “I know,” he said. “We are going to, um,” he looked at Dean.  
  
“We’re going to make it feel better,” Dean said, taking pity on him. “But we’ve got to go outside to do it. Can you sit up?”  
  
Isaiah’s lower lip extended a little, but he struggled upright. His pajamas were damp with sweat.  
  
“Man, you’ve really got a fever, don’t you,” Dean said, helping him sit up the rest of the way. He motioned to Castiel, who lifted Isaiah up under the armpits, holding him against his chest. Clearly still tired, Isaiah rested his head on Castiel’s shoulder. Dean wrapped the sheet around him. “Do we need anything else, you think?” he asked Castiel. “Sam got the holy oil, you’ve got the symbols…your blade?”  
  
“I have it,” said Castiel. He nuzzled Isaiah’s warm cheek. “Let’s go outside.”  
  
Sam, Jody, and Claire had cleared a wide circle in the dirt right where the grass ended and the trees began. Through the leaves and branches, Dean could just see the sliver of a crescent moon. A banishing symbol had already been painted on a nearby oak, in what looked like blood. Sam waved to them, a white cloth bandage wrapped around his hand fluttering.  
  
Castiel handed Isaiah off to Dean, sheet and all, and began walking around the circle, drawing Enochian symbols as he went. Then, stepping carefully over the line, he started in the middle, sketching out the six-pointed star and the symbols that Asael had given him. When he had finished, he stood back, hands on his hips. He turned to Dean. “All right,” he said.  
  
With a feeling of trepidation, Dean stepped over the lines as well, and handed Isaiah back to Castiel. Castiel sat a listing Isaiah on the ground, in the very center of the star, and helped him tug off his shirt.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, as Isaiah made a noise of discontent, but lifted his arms anyway. “I know it’s cold.” He briskly rubbed Isaiah’s shoulders, before helping him lie down. “Oil,” he commanded.  
  
Sam stepped forward, and gave the jug of holy oil to Dean, who then handed it to Castiel. Castiel popped open the top and dipped his fingers inside. Carefully, he began to trace symbols on Isaiah’s exposed belly. Isaiah let out a small giggle. Castiel paused to smile down at him, then continued.  
  
“No,” Castiel said, as Isaiah moved to touch the symbols. “Don’t touch them yet. They need to remain intact.” Looking up, his eyes found Claire. “Claire,” he said.  
  
Clair licked her lips. Her nerves clear in the slight tremble of her hands, she bent to remove her shoes and socks. Another moment, and she was picking her way over the circle.  
  
On his way out, Dean briefly clasped her arm. “Go get ‘em,” he said, before letting go.  
  
Claire nodded. She sank to her knees next to Isaiah, opposite of Castiel. Her toes pressed into the dirt.  
  
“Okay,” she said, taking a steadying gulp of air, tucking her hair back behind her ears. “What do I need to do?”  
  
“Hold his hand,” Castiel said. “Place your other hand on his head.”  
  
Claire did so. “Do I need to say anything?”  
  
“No,” Castiel said. “All you need to do is concentrate on him. Think of him, think of the ground beneath your feet.” He gave her a gentle look. “You are a child of the earth,” he said. “Our job is to separate him from the stars.”  
  
“Okay,” Claire said, setting her shoulders. She gripped Isaiah’s right hand. “I’m ready if you are, kid,” she told him.  
  
Although he clearly had no idea what was going on, Isaiah still managed to beam up at her, his eyes glazed with fever. On the other side of him, Castiel withdrew his angel blade. He held it tightly in one hand, and held Isaiah’s left hand in his. He inhaled.  
  
“ _Nor en,_ ” he said. “ _Nor, caosga. Nor madariatza.”_  
  
As he spoke, Isaiah’s skin began to shimmer, the blue glow beginning to rise from where he lay. It travelled up Claire’s hand and Castiel’s, wrapping around their wrists and arms, until all three of them were lit in flickering light. Claire squeezed her eyes shut, dug her toes more deeply into the ground beneath her, as if bracing herself.  
  
“ _Taliobe elasa adagita zomdv ima a caosga._ ”  
  
The light was brighter now, almost white, emanating from Isaiah’s stomach. Through the slits in his eyes, Dean could see Castiel raise his sword. Looking directly into the light, Castiel stabbed the blade directly into it, and _twisted_.  
  
“ _Zomdv ima a caosga_!” he cried, jabbing his blade in again. “ _Taliobe! Taliobe! Taliobe!”_  
  
The light burst.  
  
Dean immediately threw up his hands to shield his eyes. Around him, he sensed Sam and Jody do the same. He hoped Claire had kept her eyes closed.  
  
Finally, as if from a great distance away, Dean heard Castiel’s voice say quietly,  
  
“ _Nor en. Nor caosga. Torezodu, Isaiah.”_  
  
The light slowly faded.  
  
Cautiously, Dean cracked open his eyes. “Cas?” he said hoarsely.  
  
A moment that lasted a thousand years, and then he heard Castiel’s voice say tiredly, “Here, Dean.”  
  
“Did it—” Dean steeled himself. “Is Isaiah—?”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel said again. _“Here._ ”  
  
Dean went to them.  
  
He stepped over the symbols drawn in the dirt, though he supposed at this point it didn’t really matter if he messed them up. He dropped to the ground next to Castiel, his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest.  
  
“Here, Dean,” Castiel repeated, and he was grinning now, tears streaming down his face. He supported Isaiah with one hand splayed out on his bare back, and pointed towards Isaiah’s stomach with the other. Dean looked.  
  
Where the oil had been, a near-perfect replica of the Enochian design was etched into Isaiah’s skin instead, like a suspiciously occult birthmark. There was no glow.  
  
“The grace is there, Dean,” Castiel told him, as Isaiah’s eyes opened. They were bright this time, bright and lucid like he hadn’t been for days. “It can’t hurt him any more.”  
  
Dean took a few seconds to absorb that, gaze darting from Castiel, to Isaiah, to the mark on his skin, back to Castiel. He inhaled. “Fuck,” he managed, swallowing around the lump in his throat. A moment later, and he was crushing Castiel and Isaiah to him, breathing deeply. Another, and he was reaching out to yank a dazed Claire into the hug as well. “Fuck,” he said again. He swiped at his eyes.  
  
Another few seconds, and he released Claire, who swayed back, steadying herself with her hands behind her.  
  
“Cas,” Dean said, hands moving up to Castiel’s face. His thumbs caught the tears under Castiel’s eyes, flicking them away, and then they were kissing. Dean’s mouth pressed into Castiel’s, the wetness on Castiel’s face mingling with Dean’s own as they clutched at each other, knuckles white, Isaiah safe between them.  
  
“Ugh,” said Claire. “Ew, guys.”  
  
There was a pause, and then, “Ew,” Isaiah echoed, in his piping voice.  
  
Smugly, Jody said from beyond the circle, “You owe me twenty bucks, Winchester.”  
  
Dean broke away, panting. He rested his forehead against Castiel’s for a moment, then peered down at Isaiah. “Ew, huh?” he said. “Well, that’s what you get for scaring the crap out of us, kid.”  
  
Isaiah wrinkled his nose. “Ew, Daddy Dean,” he repeated. He looked over to Claire for confirmation, who winked at him.  
  
“Ew,” she agreed.  
  
Castiel sighed, and slumped against Dean.  
  
“So,” Sam asked, appearing out of the gloom. The dawn was starting to break behind his shoulders. “Did it work?”  
  
Dean got to his feet, pulling Castiel with him, then gave a hand to Claire to help her stagger upward as well. “Thanks, kid,” he said in her ear. “I owe you one.”  
  
She smirked at him. “I’m totally going to hold you to that.”  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow at her, and turned to Sam. “Signs point to yes,” he said, as Sam handed Claire her shoes. He indicated towards Castiel, who was re-wrapping Isaiah in the sheet. “I think we’re—” his knees suddenly weakened and he stumbled. Sam steadied him. Dean glanced up at his brother. “I think we’re okay,” he said thickly.  
  
Sam closed his eyes in obvious relief. “Good,” he said. He turned to look at Castiel. “Hey, Cas,” he said. “Need any help?”  
  
“No,” Castiel said, stepping out of the circle, Isaiah on his hip. Isaiah still looked tired, but he was clearly alert in a way he hadn’t been before. He was leaning against Castiel, and they were both looking at Dean. “Thank you.”  
  
Behind them, Jody was helping Claire balance as she slipped her shoes on again. “You did good, kid,” Jody told her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Good job.”  
  
Claire made a face, but accepted the embrace, casting her eyes down to the ground, her mouth slightly upturned. Dean refocused on Castiel and Isaiah.  
  
“How’re you feeling, kiddo?” he asked, as they approached.  
  
Isaiah screwed up his face. “Hungry,” he decided.  
  
For what felt like the first time in ages, Dean let out a laugh. “Hungry?”  
  
Isaiah nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah!”  
  
“Okay,” Dean said. The early morning light was starting to creep across the meadow. “Hungry, I can do.” He glanced down in surprise as he felt something brush his hand. Castiel folded their fingers together.  
  
“Let’s go home,” he said.  
  
Dean exhaled, shoulders settling. “Okay,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched up as Castiel tilted his head. “Let’s.”  
  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian Translation
> 
> My son. Son of the Earth. Son of Heaven.  
> Cleave thyself to your mother, the earth. Cleave! Cleave! Cleave!  
> Your mother, the earth!  
> My son, son of the earth. Arise, Isaiah.


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue**  
   
   
Dean awoke to the singular feeling of a mouth on his dick. His hips jerked up, and Castiel slid off with a pop.  
   
“Fuck, man,” Dean said with feeling, as Castiel moved over to cover him with his body. He raised a hand and tangled his fingers in Castiel’s hair, groaning when Castiel began to thrust his hips against him. “Fuck.”  
   
“Morning, Dean,” Castiel murmured, as he bent down to Dean’s mouth. Dean made a noise of deep appreciation, even as Castiel’s movements increased in intensity. He gasped as Castiel pulled back, looking incredibly pleased with himself.  
   
“Cas,” Dean panted. “Man—”  
   
“Shh,” Castiel told him. He sat up, but continued rocking his hips into Dean’s. His hands slipped down from Dean’s shoulders to thumb his nipples, trace along his sides, tickles his ribcage. Dean let out another groan.  
   
Dean reached forward to hold on to Castiel’s hips, his fingers pressing tiny bruises into the skin right above the bone. He tilted his head back as Castiel ground down on him.  
   
The sound of pounding feet echoing down the hallway and wild giggling under their door, made them both freeze.  
   
“Cas,” Dean said, very deliberately. “Please tell me you locked the door.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes went wide. In an instant, he was twisting around on top of Dean (who squeezed his eyes shut as unexpected sparks went off), to point an imperious finger at the door latch. It clicked shut a second before there came an incredibly loud banging from the other side.  
   
“DaddyDaddyDaddy!” _Bang, bang, bang_.  
   
“Maybe we should—” Castiel started, but Dean grabbed him by the arm before he could quite dismount.  
   
“Don’t you dare,” he growled. As Castiel frowned, Dean took executive action and flipped them over, so now he was the one doing the pinning.  
   
Of course, Dean knew that Castiel could easily dislodge him, but the fact that Castiel even allowed him the fiction? Dean was pretty sure that meant he was up for other things, too.  
   
“We,” Dean said, leaning close to whisper into Castiel’s ear, “have something else to focus on right now.” To drive the point home, he caught Castiel’s mouth in a hard kiss. “Agreed?”  
   
Panting, Castiel gazed up at him, the color high in his cheekbones, his expression glazed. “Agreed.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
It was a very satisfied Dean who, clad in his bathrobe and whistling a merry tune, sauntered down to the kitchen about thirty minutes later. As soon as he saw what awaited him there however, his morning contentment took a nosedive of incredible proportions.  
   
Sam was back from his hunt. He was sitting with Isaiah at the table. Isaiah seemed happy enough, his feet swinging, the bright green bandage on his elbow catching the light off the ceiling. He was eating his cereal, too, and even drinking the milk that Sam (it must’ve been Sam) had set out for him.  
   
None of those things were the problem.  
   
The _problem_ , was that on the floor between Isaiah’s chair and Sam’s chair, there was something small, fluffy, and _alive_.  
   
Dean smacked a palm to his face. “Oh my god,” he said. “Sam, you didn’t.”  
   
Isaiah noticed him at about the same time Sam did.  
   
“Daddy Dean!” he crowed, swinging his legs even more. “Daddy Dean, look!” He pointed at the creature on the floor with his spoon. “Look, Daddy Dean, we got a puppy!”  
   
“Really?” said Dean, staring daggers at Sam. “How interesting.”  
   
Sam squirmed. “There, uh, might have been a box,” he said. “On the side of the road.”  
   
Dean’s expression did not change. He crossed his arms.  
   
“I couldn’t just _leave_ her there, Dean! She was the only one left!”  
   
Dean sighed. “Sam,” he said. “What the hel— _heck_ are we going to do with a dog? We can’t take her on hunts, who’s going to watch her?”  
   
Sam shrugged. “Isaiah can’t come on hunts, either.”  
   
“That’s different.”  
   
“Someone’s always here to watch him,” Sam continued, as Isaiah giggled down at the dog on the floor, who was lapping up his dropped pieces of cereal with a single-minded dedication. “Now he’ll have someone to keep him company.”  
   
“Oh,” said Castiel, popping up behind Dean’s shoulder before Dean could quite come up with a retort for that. He slid his hand along the back of Dean’s neck as he headed straight for the coffee machine. “Did Sam get a dog?”  
   
“No,” Dean said, at the same time as Sam said,  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Castiel’s gaze switched between the two of them. “I see,” he said delicately. He poured his coffee.  
   
“The puppy’s name is Cheerio!” Isaiah informed them, tossing the last of his cheerios down to the floor. They were gobbled up in quick succession. A fluffy brown tail wagged.  
   
Castiel turned around, hand on his hip. “Is it?” he said, raising an indulgent eyebrow.  
   
“Yeah,” Isaiah said. He grinned. “He’s going to be my puppy. Cause—cause I’m the one who named him.”  
   
At that, Dean threw up his hands. “We are not done talking about this,” he hissed at Sam, slinking over to join Castiel by the coffee machine. He took the warm mug Castiel handed to him, and sniffed, leaning half against the counter, half against Castiel’s steady shoulder. “Cheerio,” he muttered, quietly enough so that only Castiel could hear him. “What kind of name is that for a dog?”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel admonished, nudging him with his elbow. Dean made a disgruntled face.  
   
“Anyway,” Sam said, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought Isaiah and I could take the dog and the day and go to the park or something. Give you guys some, uh, you know…”  
   
Suddenly, Dean’s previous good spirits returned in full force. “Actually,” he said smugly, “We—”  
   
That time, Castiel jabbed his elbow into Dean’s stomach. Dean took the hint, but still waggled his eyebrows at Sam, who looked a little nauseated.  
   
“Yeah, we’re going to the park,” he said.  
   
“Not Lebanon Elementary,” Castiel reminded him, like Sam needed reminding that Isaiah still refused to even step foot on that particular playground, and hid his face when they had to drive past it. Dean still wasn’t sure what they were going to do when he had to start school.  
   
“Nah,” Sam said easily, “we’ll go somewhere else.” He tilted his head at Isaiah. “Want to come to the park with me?”  
   
Isaiah’s forehead furrowed. “Can Cheerio come, too?”  
   
“Cheerio can come, too” Sam assured him.  
   
“Okay.” Isaiah twisted to look over at Dean and Castiel. “Daddy,” he said. “I want to go to the park.”  
   
“Well, good,” Dean said, moving forward to edge his chair back so he could jump out. “Cause I think your Uncle Sammy’s going to take you whether you want to or not.”  
   
Isaiah crouched down to examine the dog, who licked his outstretched hand enthusiastically. “Cheerio is coming.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean gave him a light swat on the behind. “Go pick out some real clothes to wear, and Daddy Cas’ll be along in a sec to help you.”  
   
“I want to play with Cheerio.”  
   
“Well, go put some clothes on then, so you can go to the park and play.”  
   
“I can go in pajamas,” Isaiah decided.  
   
Dean snorted. “No.”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“Because.”  
   
“Because why?”  
   
“Because they’ll get all gross and dirty.”  
   
“No, they won’t.”  
   
“Fine,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Because I said so and I’m unfair. Now go put some real clothes on.” He pointed towards the door.  
   
Pouting, Isaiah stomped out of the kitchen.  
   
“I should probably go make sure he’s not going to simply switch for another pair of pajamas,” Castiel said. He put his coffee down on the counter, and brushed a brief kiss against Dean’s mouth before making his way out of the kitchen as well.  
   
Dean let out a breath, picking up his own coffee, and taking a deep gulp of it.  
   
“Dean, I,” Sam started, but Dean held up his hand.  
   
“Nah,” he said quietly. “You’re right, man.”  
   
“Uh,” said Sam. “I was?”  
   
Dean set his coffee on the table and slipped into a chair. “Isaiah needs more company than just a bunch of boring old hunters,” he said. “He needs someone to play with.” He cupped his chin in his hands. “Until we figure out a way to make it so he can have friends and stuff come over, a dog’s not such a bad idea.”  
   
“Oh,” said Sam, the tension visibly easing from his shoulders. He took a bite of toast. “Okay,” he said. “Good.”  
   
“You’re still responsible for it,” Dean said, wrinkling his nose.  
   
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam let his hand dangle down, and the puppy gave it an enthusiastic lick, before setting to investigating Dean’s slippers, an inspection that Dean bore stoically.  
   
A loud thumping announced Isaiah’s triumphant return, this time clad in shorts and a Ninja Turtles t-shirt. “Okay!” he said. “I’m ready!”  
   
Out of seemingly nowhere, Sam produced a leash. He bent down, and managed to snag the puppy on her way back over to Isaiah and Castiel, clipping it to her collar. He straightened, and held his hand out to Isaiah. “Well, I guess we should go.”  
   
“To the park!” Isaiah shouted, completely ignoring Sam’s hand, and rushing out the room towards the stairs. “Bye, Daddy! Bye, Daddy Dean!”  
   
Excited by all the commotion, the puppy strained at the leash and let out several yips, scrambling in the direction Isaiah had gone, with Sam forced to keep up lest she strangle herself.  
   
There were several more thumps, a few crashes, and a loud bang as the door to the bunker slammed shut, and then suddenly, everything was unnaturally quiet.  
   
Dean exhaled. “Well,” he said lightly, turning to Castiel. “Now that they’re gone, whatever should we do with our freedom?”  
   
Castiel blinked at him. “Sex,” he said.  
   
Dean choked a little.  
   
“What?” Castiel frowned. “Or don’t you want to?”  
   
“I mean, of course I want—but you’re supposed to say—you know what? Never mind.” Dean gripped his wrist. “Just get your ass over here.”  
   
Smiling, Castiel went.  
   
   
   
   
_End._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, especially those who have read and commented along the way. You're the greatest.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a shiny new tumblr I'll probably never update. But there's always hope! Username: Aerlalaith


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